.It    C" 

\~Jm  .Jj 


^# 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


- 


m 


' 


THE  MISSIONARY. 


THE  BANDIT  CHIEF 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


BY 


CHARLES     H.    FREER. 


ILLUSTRATED  WITH    FULL-PAGE  ENGRAVINGS. 


CHICAGO: 

AMERICAN  PUBLISHERS'  ASSOCIATION. 
1892. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1891,  by 

CHARLES  H.  FREER, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress, 

At  Washington,  D.  C. 


INTEODUCTORY. 

As  a  Dramatic  Poet  and  Eeciter,  the  author  of 
this  Selection  of  Readings  has  few  equals.  The  Plan 
of  his  Writings,  and  the  purely  Dramatic  effect  of  his 
delivery,  being  such  as  to  hold  an  audience  completely 
at  his  mercy.  In  other  words,  they  laugh  when  he 
laughs,  and  they  weep  when  he  weeps,  and  the  con 
clusion  of  his  Recitations  are  always  met  with  the 
heartiest  of  applause. 

His  efforts  to  bring  about  harmony  of  feeling  be 
tween  the  factions  North  and  South,  are  fully  appreci 
ated  by  all  true  lovers  of  right;  though  probably  most 
by  those  who  stood  in  line  before  the  smoking  cannon, 
and  read  the  strength  of  the  unselfish  manhood  of  their 
foes  —  "the  truest  soldier  then,  is  the  truest  citizen 
now, "says  the  author. 

Because  of  the  nature  of  these  Readings,  the 
author  has  seen  fit  to  style  the  book  "  The  Missionary," 
therefore  has  copyrighted  under  that  name. 

G.  A.  BEERS. 


762931 


Be  this  a  pearl,  intrusive  sent, 
To  seek  the  soul's  embattlement, 
And  flash  its  limpid  lights  apart 
Till  buried  like  a  random  dart, 
Hurled  earthward  by  the  hand  divine,— 
It  touch  the  deeps  of  bitter  brine 
And  nerve  each  waiting  hand  to  move 
The  pen  that  builds  of  Christ  and  Love. 
CHARLES  FREER. 


CONTENTS. 


THE  BANDIT  CHIEF                                        ...  13 

Bay  Bessie  -       37 

Go  Lead  Them  45 

Susannah  -       50 

Shredded  Blue  53 

The  Marble  Way  -       59 

Sister  Frankie  61 

A  Poet's  Constancy  -       64 

Battle  of  Chickamauga  66 

My  Brother's  Picture  -       69 

One  Year  Ago  71 

My  Mother  -       73 

Jealousy         -  75 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  -       76 

At  Sioux  Falls  78 

The  Tern  pest        -  -       80 

To  Lord  Tennyson      -  81 

Christmas  -       83 

Flirtations     -  84 

An  Immortal        -  -       85 

A  Blessed  Surrender  87 

Consolation          -  -       88 

Home  89 

Life's  Little  Day  -       91 

Sister  Sarah    -  91 

To  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox    -  94 

The  New  Year  96 

The  Miner's  Grave  -       98 
Kind  Sisters 
Ho !  Land  of  the  West 
Sleeping 
Sympathy 
A  California  Fourth                ... 


11  OONTENTS. 

Moonlight  -     105 

The  Sweetest  Gift  -                                                                              106 

Good-By  -     107 

I  Go  To-Morrow  -                                                                                  108 

Friends  in  Poesy  .              -      110 

Does  He?        -  111 

Misfortune  -     112 

Glorious         -  113 

A  Crown  of  Love  -                                                                     -     114 

New  Wreaths  116 

Sally  Cahoon        -  -      119 

The  Horseman's  Ideal  -                          120 

Meditation  -      132 

Nature's  Cast       -  -     123 

Poesy  12< 

Join  Hands  -      125 

Impunity        -  127 

Solid  Diamond      -  -     128 

Cautel  129 

Freedom's  Song  -     131 

The  Last  Watch  133 

To  Mrs.  Andrew  Anderson  -      134 

Gimpy's  Nerve  135 

Bugle  Calls,  or  High  Poker  -      142 

My  Phantom  Bride  -                                                                                  147 

Necessity  -     155 

Unknown       -  156 

Disappointment  -      160 

Dana's  Drive  161 

Beaded  Wine  -     185 

New  Stars       -  185 

Dave        -  -     188 

That  Coquettish  Rider  191 

Les  Majeste          -  -     193 

An  Autumn  Leaf  ...                                       .196 

Autumn               -  -             -            •             -             -             -     198 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


THE  MISSIONARY,      -         -  -              FRONTISPIECE. 

Lelah  Enters  the  Cave,     -  16 

Come,  I  Beseech  You  I  Will  You  Go?  -      19 

Song:  Who  Enters  Here  Must  Surely  Die, 

Dear  Father!  Bless  this  Spread  of  Food,  -        25 

'Twas  a  Splendid  Shot,  26 

You  Shall  Not  Kill  Him,  -        35 

Bay  Bessie, 

Go  Lead  Them,  -        *5 

Shredded  Blue  & 

The  Marble  way,  -         59 

Sister  Frankie,  ^ 

Camp  Scene,    - 

One  Year  Ago,  '* 

At  Sioux  Falls,  -          •  „    W 

Lord  Tennyson.    - 

Christmas, 

Flirtations  84 

Home, 

Life's  Little  Day.  91 

Sister  Sarah, 

The  New  Year,  CO 

Kind  Sisters,      -  .....        99 

Ho  I  Land  of  the  West,  100 

Good  Bye,  -          -          -          -       107 

Glorious, 

New  Wreaths, 11° 

Solid  Diamond, 

Cautel,       .-.-. 129 

Dave,  ...                      188 
Autumn.             .......--       198 


THE  MISSIONARY 


THE    BANDIT    CHIEF: 

OR 

THE  MISSIONARY'S  DOOM. 


Bandits  home  in  a  cave — wall  hung  with  fire-arms,  and  a  motto 
painted  on  wall,  «  Who  enters  here  must  surely  die." 

CHIEF: 

They  call  me  Chief  —  in  the  jungle  here, 
Where  the  panther  hides,  and  the  elfin  deer 
With  nimble  form  and  an  airy  stride, 
Glides  down  to  drink  of  the  mountain  tide. 

They  call  me  Chief  —  where  the  ooziersbow, 
Like  the  archen  lash  of  a  monarch's  brow, 
And  the  torrents  dash  with  a  fevered  roll 
That  tells  the  tale  of  a  Stormy  Soul. 

They  call  me  Chief — in  this  mountain  home, 
Where  never  as  yet  has  a  stranger  come; 
Save  wandering  winds  with  their  idle  words, 
And  mingled  songs  of  the  mountain  birds.  - 

They  call  me  Chief  —  and  my  brawny  men 
Have  styled  our  castle  the  Devil's  Den; 
And  the  sooty  forms  that  have  come  to  dwell 
Are  surely  rich  of  the  rakes  of  hell. 


14  THE    MISSIONARY. 

They  call  me  Chief  — and  the  grimmj  crew 
Have  paid  the  tribute,  my  life  is  due; 
And  I  laugh  ha!  ha!  as  a  Chieftain  would 
With  a  record  rich  with  the  stains  of  blood. 

Ah,  the  ruddy  stains!  they  are  rich  and  deep 
In  the  winding  ways  where  the  victims  sleep; 
And  the  treasures  won,  they  are  vast  and  new, 
As  a  fresh-sown  field  of  the  morning  dew. 

Yes,  here  a  jewel  and  here  a  gem 

That  lit  the  circle  —  a  diadem  — 

From  sweet  Minerva  or  Esther  ta'en, 

And  borrowed  '  <  dust  "  from  the  Swagart  Swain 

And  here  a  diamond  as  clear  and  cold 
As  the  heart  that  perished  of  love,  of  old; 
A  jasper  hold  and  a  golden  pen 
Have  found  their  way  to  the  Devil's  Den. 

A  tick  of  time  and  a  shining  comb 

That  crowned  the  summit  of  some  fair  dome; 

A  tinselled  chain  and  a  locket-half, 

And  a  snobbish  snide  of  a  photograph. 

And  here,  ha!  ha!  'tis  a  worldly  loss! 
A  string  of  pearl!  and  an  agate  cross! 
From  the  neck  of  a  priest?  I  shall  never  tell; 
But  they  found  their  way  to  this  hole  o'  hell. 

And  these  are  trinkets  that  idly  go 
To  deck  the  world  with  an  outer  show; 
But  they  catch  the  fancy,  they  fill  the  mold, 
And  we  trade  them  out  for  the  coined  gold. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  15 

A  bracelet  bright  —  and  a  golden  band, 
And  these  were  fresh  from  a  lady's  hand! 
I  wonder  then,  did  she  feel  the  hurt 
That  drove  her  home  to  the  mother  dirt. 

Well,  the  gems  were  lost!  and  the  maid  is  cold! 
And  I  hold  the  checks  with  an  eager  hold! 
And  the  night-winds  call  as  they  wander  by  — 
O  spare!  O  spare!  but  she  had  to  die. 

And  I  laid  her  there  by  the  lonely  pine, 
And  I  crossed  her  grave  with  a  running  vine; 
And  I  prayed  to  God  in  a  wretched  way 
Would  He  watch  the  home  of  the  sleeping  clay. 

And  I  knelt  me  there,  and  I  shed  a  tear, 
As  the  wild  winds  rang  to  my  helpless  ear 
Those  thrilling  words,  they  will  never  fly: 

0  spare!  O  spare!  but  she  had  to  die. 

They  call  me  Chief  —  and  I  earned  the  note 
When  I  drew  the  blade  to  that  perfect  throat, 
And  the  heart  went  up  with  a  mighty  throe 
When  the  crimson  leapt  to  its  banks  of  snow. 

But  the  past  is  past,  and  the  heart  is  cold, 
And  colder  still  is  the  curse-won  gold! 
And  I  hear  the  winds  in  their  rambles  tell  — 
Till  1  dash  the  gains  to  the  floors  of  hell! 

Tap  at  door. 

Gods!  what  is  that?  'tis  a  stranger's  call! 

Are  the  guards  asleep  ?  he  has  passed  them  all; 

1  must  gather  all  from  the  littered  floor, 
Ere  my  hands  shall  dare  to  unbar  the  door! 

Gathers  hurriedly  —  Second  rap. 


16  THE    MISSIONABY. 

Yes!  Yes!  indeed!  did  you  think  me  deaf? 
Come  down  the  cut  at  the  leeward  cleff ! 
At  the  leeward  cleff !  where  the  rocks  divide! 
At  the  inner  door!  on  the  other  side! 

Dons  disguise,  takes  sword  —  rap  at  door  —  woman's  voice :  »  May  I 
come  in  ?  " 

By  the  powers  of  love!  'tis  a  woman's  voice! 
And  her  visit  here  is  a  sorry  choice, 
For  the  motto  reads  to  the  stranger's  eye  — 
"Who  enters  here  —  he  must  surely  die.'' 

But  what!  O  what!  if  the  stranger  knew 
Were  the  spirit  form  of  the  girl  I  slew  ? 
And  the  soul's  return  from  the  sable  sea, 
Has  a  mission  bent  but  to  slaughter  me. 

Lady:  "And  must  I  go  away?"    Chief  seizes  bottle  — kneels. 

O  master,  thou  who  has  crushed  the  flower, 
And  turned  the  wine  of  my  being  sour! 
Give!  give  to  me  from  thy  purple  flood 
A  spirit  fresh  for  the  thirst  of  blood! 

Drinks.    Lady:  "  O  will  you  let  me  in  ?" 

Determined  soul!  for  she  lingers  still, 
And  to  enter  here  is  her  dogged  will. 
O,  coward  Chief  !  that  shall  hide  to  win! 
Be  what  she  shall  I  will  let  her  in! 

Chief  unlocks  door,  springs  to  center—  Lady  enters;  Chief  springs 
toward  her — She  goes  bravely  toward  him,  fearlessly  too;  he  lifts 
sword  as  if  to  strike,  pointing  with  finger  of  empty  hand  toward  motto 
on  wall. 

LELAH : 

Yes!  yes!  indeed!  I  see!  I  see! 
But  praise  the  Lord  I'm  not  a  he; 


LELAH  ENTERS  THE  CAVE. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  17 

Just  a  poor  weak  girl  with  a  voice  of  song, 
And  a  faith  in  Christ  that  will  keep  me  strong. 

CHIEF: 

Just  a  poor  weak  fool!  and  your  mission  here 
Will  likely  end  in  a  manner  queer; 
Come  have  a  drink!  don't  play  the  fool 
In  this  new  roll  of  a  Sunday  school. 

She  takes  glass. 
LELAH: 

And  you  offer  this  ?  Shall  I  drink  the  wine 
Till  my  white  soul  sinks  to  the  mire  with  thine? 
Would  it  be  thy  wish  that  the  wine  should  trace 
Of  its  ruddy  blight  on  my  fair  young  face  ? 

CHIEF: 

Yes!  yes!  yes!  yes!  Just  take  her  down! 
One  good  square  drink  is  worth  a  town  I 
It'll  do  you  good,  gal!  'twill  do  you  good! 
'Twill  bring  new  life  to  yer  laggard  blood! 

LELAH: 

Would  it  be  thy  wish  that  a  mother's  prayer 
Be  answered  back  with  a  gurgle  there? 
That  shadows  fall  on  this  heart  of  mine  ? 
If  so  I  'will  taste  of  the  tempting  wine. 

^CHIEF  —  grabbing  glass  : 

No!  no!  no!  no!  no!  no!  no!  no!  no!  no!  no! 
Don't  drink  it  girl!  don't  drink  it,  no! 
It's  well  enough  for  a  tough  like  me, 
But  it  taint  quite  prime  for  thee,  for  thee. 


18  THE    MISSIONARY. 

LELAH  -  aside  : 

While  life  remains  shall  hope  depart  ? 
This  bandit  chief  has,  too,  a  heart; 
And  the  blessed  word  in  the  proper  way 
May  win  him  back  to  a  better  day. 

CHIEF: 

Here  lady,  here,  come  have  a  stool! 
Upon  my  word  you're  wondrous  cool 
For  one  whose  days  on  this  fair  land 
Scarce  count  the  fingers  of  one  hand. 

LELAH: 

Scarce  count  the  fingers  of  one  hand  ? 
Why  sir,  I  scarce  can  understand. 
Surely  not  you  would  stoop  to  harm 
A  woman's  frail  defenseless  form? 

CHIEF: 

Not  I !  Not  I !  but  they!  my  band! 
Would  lift  destruction's  fevered  hand 
And  rend  thee  in  their  vicious  throes 
As  tempests  rend  the  mountain  rose. 

LELAH: 

I  fear  them  not!  love's  tender  bloom 
Still  lifted  o'er  the  Savior's  tomb, 
When  earth,  convulsed  with  deadly  shocks, 
Threw  sulphur  from  her  riven  rocks. 

CHIEF: 

Ah  !  true  indeed!  some  hearts  may  feel, 
But  here,  where  hearts  are  stone  and  steel, 
Tell  not  of  love!  each  gleaming  blade 
Would  lift  to  sm'te  you  while  you  prayed. 


(JOME,  I  BESEECH  YOU!    WILL  YOU  (iO? 


THE    MISSIONARY.  19 

LELAH: 

Ah!  he  whose  guidance  bade  me  come 
And  search  you  in  your  mountain  home, 
Will  stand  for  aye  in  due  defense 
Of  duty,  love  and  innocence. 

And  why  ?  oh  why  ?  should  man  depart 
From  friends  and  home  and  kindred  heart  ? 
This  surely  was  not  heaven's  plan, 
Man's  mercy  to  his  fellow  man. 

Come,  I  beseech  you  !  will  you  go 

Back  where  God's  great,  grand  orchards  grow  ? 

Back  to  that  promise  without  end  ? 

God  !  God  !  and  every  man  your  friend. 

Why  will  you  hide  in  jungles  deep, 
Where  only  beasts  should  prowl  and  creep? 
And  eagles  scream,  and  owlets  cry, 
For  heaven's  sake  !  do  tell  me  why  ? 

You  do  not  speak  !  your  answer  pray  I 

0  will  you  ?  will  you  ?  come  away  ? 
Ah  !  surely  you  shall  go  !  or  I 
Will  never  go  !  tho'  I  should  die. 

CHIEF: 

No,  no  !  sweet  lady  you  must  fly  ! 

1  cannot  look  your  clear  bright  eye 
So  beaming  there,  a  star  in  place 
In  that  grand  heaven  of  your  face. 

Go  lady  I  go!  I  beg  you,  hence  I 
I  dare  not  speak  in  your  defense  1 


20  THE   MISSIONAKY. 

Quick  as  a  flash  I  one  word  were  said, 
My  grimmy  crew  would  strike  me  dead. 

LELAH: 

They  shall  not  harm  thee  I  not  for  this, 
If  that  my  purposed  plans  shall  miss; 
Still  will  I  bear  each  offered  blame, 
And  meet  unmoved  death's  cruel  aim. 

But  ah  I  my  friend,  I  do  not  fear  ! 
My  Guardian  Star  is  ever  near; 
And  He  who  ruled  the  stormy  wave, 
His  arm  is  mighty  still  to  save. 

CHIEF: 

Ah  noble  girl !  but  oh  I  fear 
This  confidence  will  cost  you  dear  ! 
One  little  hour  my  heartless  men 
Will  gather  at  the  cave  again. 

LELAH: 

Then  bind  me  that  excuse  may  say, 
One  fell  into  our  net  to-day  ! 
And  so  awaits  with  grand  report 
The  verdict  of  our  sooty  court. 

Chief  hesitates;  thinks;  speaks: 

Then  be  it  so,  for  thou  art  bent 

To  shun  prevailing  argument; 

And  yield  thy  life  —  a  jewel  bought 

From  hope's  sweet  cause  —  for  naught !  for  naught 

Yea,  even  now  with  eyes  of  thought, 
That  dusky  page  so  overwrought, 
Takes  to  its  blotted  breast  of  shame 
A  newness  of  another  name. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  21 

Thy  name  in  blood  I  in  blood  !  I  say, 
Plain  written  there  as  marks  of  day  J 
O  will  you  go  ?  or  will  you  die  ? 
Thank  God  !  there  yet  is  time  to  fly. 

She  looks  up  smiling,  shakes  head. 

Not  go  I  not  go  I  what  can  it  mean  ? 
So  like  sweet  heaven's  border  queen ! 
Again,  again  those  sad  winds  cry 

0  spare  !   O  spare  I  but  she  had  to  die. 

Several  shots,  quick  and  near. 

They  come !  they  come  !   my  dusky  crew ! 
Each  stern  addresc  will  trouble  you  ! 
And  I,  in  this  shame  drama  pressed, 
Must  not  play  lighter  than  the  rest. 

So,  sit  you  there  !  that  there  be  room, 
Lest  far  too  sudden  come  thy  doom. 
Half  maddened  in  their  drunken  mood 
They  glory  in  the  sight  of  blood. 

LELAH: 

1  fear  them  not,  for  armored  so, 
Christ-courage  strikes  the  harder  blow; 
And  gospel  thrusts  a  tongue  may  deal 
Pierce  deeper  than  the  keenest  steel. 

Sings:  «•  Before  I'd  leave  my  Savior  I'd  lay  me  down  and  die."— Is 
interrupted  by  loud  kicking  at  the  door  —  springs  up. 

BANDITS: 

1  —  Unbar !  unbar !  turn  back  the  key  ! 

2  —  We've  liquor  red  !   3  —  and  plunder  free ! 

4:  —  And  jewels  bright !  5  —  and  gold  in  store ! 
Throw  wide  the  door  !  throw  wide  the  door ! 


22  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Chief  dons  Chieftain-hat—  unbars  door— returns  centre- 

The  bolts  are  drawn  !  the  bars  are  down ! 
And  I,  as  Chief  of  Devil  Town, 
Bid  welcome  to  the  bravest  band 
That  lifts  an  oath  or  crimson  hand  ! 

Bandits  enter  single  file,  circling  Chief  and  singing,  while  they  lift 
signs  of  plunder  with  one  hand  and  bottle  of  liquor  with  the  other. 

SONG: 

While  mothers  pray  and  lovers  weep, 

Bandittis  still  high  revel  keep, 

And  drink  their  wine  (all  pour  drink)  and  shout  it 

high, 
Who  enters  here  must  surely  die. 

All  touch  glasses  high  in  centre— swing  half  round  in  opposite 
direction,  then  repeating  over:  "Must  Surely  Die  1"— turning  back, 
sing  on: 

O  call  the  cook,  the  feast  prepare, 
Then  count  the  gains  that  each  may  share 
His  proper  tribute  from  the  spoil, 
Remunant  of  a  night  of  toil. 

Cook  prepares  table. 

O  spread  the  feast,  the  wine  prepare, 
And  place  the  shining  glasses  there, 
The  glasses  rich  with  opal  stain, 
Like  drops  of  blood  from  human  vein. 

The  wine  is  sweet  and  blood  is  pure, 
And  death  to  all  is  stern  and  sure; 
And  while  we  revel  still  we  cry, 
Who  enters  here  must  surely  die. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  23 

CHIEF: 

Our  table  rich  with  bounties  spread, 
Now  for  a  woman  at  the  head; 
What  say  you  men  ?  would  such  a  phase 
Return  us  aught  of  boyhood  days  ? 

BANDITS: 

1  —  A  woman  !  yes,  a  dove,  a  priest, 

The  crowning  feature  of  our  feast ! 

2  — A  Daniel  in  a  lion's  den 

3— And  we  the  lions  — then,  what  then  ! 

CHIEF: 

It  shall  be  so !  a  child  of  light 
Shall  crown  our  revel  feast  to-night; 

Aside: 

Ere  yet  we  cry  the  fatal  word, 
We'll  test  the  presence  of  the  bird. 

Bandits  look  at  each  other,  shaking  heads  and  mumbling  — Chief 
leads  lady  forward  —  Lady  bows,  smiles :   Good  evening,  gentlemen : 
Bandits  grunt  and  seem  affronted.      t 
SI: 

For  twelve  long  years  this  Devil's  Den 
Has  fondled  naught  but  daring  men, 

All  draw  revolvers. 

Nor  shall  its  sturdy  Chief  depart 
The  laws  of  this  imperial  court. 

Lelah  steps  forward  explaining: 
LELAH: 

Fear  not,  my  friends,  your  Chief  is  true ! 
And  fetter'd  still  I  come  to  you, 
And  beg  you  with  imploring  tear, 
Why  am  I  kept  a  captive  here  ? 


24  THE    MISSIONARY. 

CHIEF  —  angrily: 

These  double  bands !  this  cautious  strain, 
And  yet  you  ask  me  to  explain  ! 
My  acts  invoke  no  shamed  abuse, 
Nor  do  I  cavail  for  excuse. 

I  am  your  target  if  you  choose ! 

And  quick  to  take  the  proffered  news- 

Or,  if  per  favor,  it  be  said, 

Then  I  will  meet  you  blade  to  blade. 

Damned  be  the  cur  whose  dotage  dies 
At  meeting  foeman  eyes  to  eyes ! 
And  not  your  Chieftain  yet  has  stood 
Portrayal  of  that  yellow  blood 

SI: 

Enough !  Enough !  the  fault  is  mine; 
Beg  pardon  sir !  and  let  us  dine. 
So  place  the  lady  at  youc  will, 
For  thou  art  Chief  and  leader  still ! 

Chief  to  lady: 

Then  at  the  head  thy  form  shall  rest, 
All  honored !  all  unhappy  guesit; 
And  strive  you  well  at  this  repast, 
Undoubtedly  it  is  thy  last. 

LELAH 

My  last,  ha !  ha !  no  stranger,  no, 
Yon  really  cannot  mean  it  so; 
No  blight  of  time  as  yet  is  dressed 
Above  my  pearly  brow  or  breast. 


THE    MISSIONARY  25 

Yet  grant  me  men,  of  one  accord, 
Return  of  thanks  unto  the  Lord; 
It  bringeth  peace  to  heart  and  head, 
And  sweetens  every  crura  of  bread. 

CHIEF: 

Yes  we  will  be  of  one  accord, 
So  tell  your  story  to  the  Lord. 

1  _  'Twill  be  your  last  long  sweet  Amen ! 

2  — Sent  skyward  from  a  Devil's  Den. 

All  laugh  coarsely —  pause  an '  'ook  at  her. 
LELAH: 

Dear  Father  bless  this  spread  of  food, 
That  it  may  do  our  spirits  good; 
And  as  the  fertile  falls  of  snow 
That  help  the  sweet  June  roses  blow, 
So  feed  our  souls  with  nourishment, 
And  lifting  springs  of  pure  content, 
That  e'en  the  darkest  heart  may  grow 
Some  splendors  that  shall  bud  and  blow, 
And  bear  the  soul  new-born  and  spiced 
And  sweet  before  a  risen  Christ,  Amen  ! 

BANDITS:' 

Amen !  amen !  amen !  amen  ! 

1  —  A  Sunday  school  in  a  Devil's  Den, 

2  —  And  the  blooming  lips  of  a  handsome  lass, 

To  hunt  the  text  for  the  bible  class. 

All  laugh  roughly  —  whoopee  I 
DAN: 

I  wonder  boys  if  her  faith  is  good  ! 
Or  would  she  faint  at  the  loss  of  blood; 

Pulls  revolver,  and  throws  apple  to  comrade  at  head  of  table: 


26  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Here  place  the  test,  for  the  nerve  is  fine 
That  wavers  not  from  the  leaden  line. 

CHIEF: 

So  place  her  there  at  the  temple  gate ! 
And  we'll  test  the  truth  of  her  pious  prate 
For  sure  as  faith  if  the  trust  is  weak 
A  coward  heart  from  the  lips  will  speak. 

She  is  placed  —  an  apple  is  put  on  her  head. 

So  stand  you  there,  as  a  statue  still, 
For  death  is  sure  at  the  slightest  thrill ! 
And  the  leaden  bird  from  its  prison  sped 
May  find  a  rest  in  the  shapely  head. 

One  counts.:  One,  two,  three  —  fire!  Apple  is  down.    One  picks  up 
apple,  pushes  finger  through  core,  and  holds  it  up  to  sight— they  cheer 

CHIEF: 

'Twas  a  splendid  Liiot !  for  it  pierced  the  core 
And  it  spared  the  maid  from  the  loss  of  gore  • 
Pass  'round  the  wine  with  its  ruddy  shade 
And  we'll  drink  a  toast  to  the  nervy  maid. 

All  lift  glasses,  about  to  drink. 
SI: 

Hold !  Captain,  hold  !  'twas  a  boastless  deed, 
Lets  push  the  test  to  a  finer  bede; 
I'll  wager  gold  from  the  very  start 
I  could  ring  a  bell  at  the  lady's  heart. 

CHIEF: 

You  could  ring  a  bell,  it  is  plain  to  see 
You  could  ring  a  bell,  —  B.  E.  L.  L.  E. ; 
But  its  ten  to  one  you  could  shoot  a  curve 
With  the  steady  aid  of  your  drunken  nerve. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  27 

SI—  pulling  purse: 

You  doubt  my  skill !  and  you  term  me  sot ! 
But  I  earned  the  name  of  the  Fatal  Shot, 
And  I'll  wager  this  to  a  hope  in  hell 
That  I'll  sound  the  tap  of  this  tiny  bell. 

Tapping  bell  with  finger—  call  belL 
CHIEF: 

Then  pile  your  gold,  I'll  cover  that, 
And  I'll  top  the  pile  with  a  Chieftain's  hat; 
And  I'll  wager  all  with  a  single  whirl 
That  you  miss  the  bell  and  you  kill  the  girl. 

SI— looking  at  target:  Aside. 

I  will  lose  the  name  of  the  Fatal  Shot 
If  the  white  breast  shows  with  a  crimson  spot. 
But  the  deed  be  hers,  and  the  fault  shall  rest 
With  the  faithless  move  of  the  bleeding  breast. 

Business  of  shooting  is  awfully  unsteady  —  sights  several  times. 
CHIEF: 

Still !  be  stilj !  for  a  swaying  hair 
Would  stop  the  heart  that  is  beating  there, 
And  the  slightest  stir  as  the  missile  flies 
Would  seal  the  gaze  of  those  trusting  eyes. 

Business  shooting  —  bell  rings  —  cheers. 
BANDITS: 

Hurrah !  hurrah !  he  has  struck  the  bell ! 
1— And  has  won  the  gold  !  2  —  and  a  hope  in  hell ! 
3  —  And  a  Chieftain's  hat !    4  —  and  a  title  hot 

That  hails  him  still  as  the  Fatal  Shot. 


28  THE    MISSION AKY. 

SI: 

You  call  it  brave,  but  the  test  was  there 
With  the  tiger  nerve  of  the  lady  fair ! 
And  the  target  lay  like  a  dream  of  light 
In  the  silver  noon  of  a  summer's  night. 

And  I  pressed  it  twice  !  and  I  pressed  it  thrice 
And  my  reedy  hand  was  a  thing  of  ice, 
Till  the  heart  was  sure  of  the  deadly  rest 
Of  the  target  there  on  the  dauntless  breast. 

And  I  pressed  the  spring,  and  I  won  the  prize ! 
And  I  proved  the  sham  of  your  taunting  lies ! 
And  never  a  stain  nor  a  crimson  spot 
To  steal  the  fame  of  the  Fatal  Shot. 

Pushing:  gold  and  hat  to  the  Chief. 

Here  Chieftain,  here !  'twas  a  friendly  tilt, 
Nor  sin  is  borrowed,  nor  blood  is  spilt; 
But  all  grows  dark  in  the  Devil's  Den 
When  I  think  me  over  what  might  have  been. 

I'd  a  sister  once,  just  a  tiny  maid 
With  a  trusting  heart  and  a  nerve  as  staid 
As  the  woman  there  with  the  dauntless  breast, 
That  stood  to-day  in  the  target  test. 

She  comes  down  front. 
LEL  AH— aside: 

0  God  !  My  God !  can  it  be  our  Si ! 

1  trusted  him  tho'  I  knew  not  why; 
And  I  lived  to-day  in  the  days  now  dead 
When  he  shot  the  fruit  from  my  sunny  head. 


THE   MISSIONARY.  29 

SI: 

Pass  'round  the  wine  to  every  one ! 
Let's  warm  the  blood,  for  the  deed  is  done; 
Drink  lady!  drink!   for  the  drink  is  hot, 
And  you  owe  your  life  to  the  Fatal  Shot. 

LEL AH— taking  glass,  holding  high,  looking  at  it: 

Could  you  read  the  words  that  are  written  fine 
On  the  foamy  crest  of  the  treacherous  wine; 
And  the  pages  sank  in  the  purple  waste, 
I  do  not  think  you  would  ask  me  taste. 

I  read  a  tale  of  a  broken  home 
In  the  spiteful  burst  of  the  billowy  foam; 
And  I  read  a  tale  of  a  settled  woe 
In  the  purple  seas  th'at  lurk  below. 

And  I  read  a  tale  of  a  bitter  gall 
In  the  dregs  that  lie  at  the  base  of  all; 
For  they  tell  to  me  from  their  lips  of  slime 
Of  the  final  rest  of  a  soul  in  crime. 

O  the  cursed  wine ;   for  the  pages  read 
Of  the  blighted  hope  and  the  crimson  deed; 
Of  the  broken  heart  and  the  lover's  sigh, 
And  the  grief-born  tear  of  a  mother's  eye. 

No,  take  the  wine,  for  it  brings  me  pain, 
And  it  leads  me  back  to  a  home  again 
That  has  lost  a  star  from  its  cluster  there, 
To  the  night  of  sin  —  God  knows  the  where. 

SI  —  taking  glass : 

Ah !  she  tells  of  home  and  a  fallen  star, 
Of  a  missing  soul  that  is  dark  and  far; 


30  THE   MISSIONARY. 

But  she  never  dreams  of  the  stars  that  trace, 
Of  the  skies  of  home  on  her  woman  face. 

O  gracious  God !  have  I  gone  so  low ! 

Why  do  I  ask  when  I  know  'tis  so  ? 

And  must  these  hands,  that  have  touched  the  flood, 

Be  redder  still  with  a  sister's  blood 

Should  it  fall  to  me,  at  the  final  vote, 
To  draw  the  steel  to  her  snowy  throat; 
Could  I  face  the  glow  of  her  kindly  eye, 
Could  I  stand,  O  God  !  but  she  must  not  die. 

CHIEF: 

To  the  council  men  !  for  the  breaking  day 
Climbs  skyward  there  on  her  wings  of  gray; 
The  night  is  gone  with  its  idle  sport, 
And  we've  work  to  do  in  our  sooty  court. 

Bring  on  the  spoils  of  the  plundered  night, 
The  jewels  bright  and  the  garments  light; 
And  the  broidered  hems  that  are  deep  with  gold, 
To  the  auction  all,  for  they  must  be  sold. 

Rings  auction  bell. 
LELAH: 

"To  the  auction  here  for  they  must  be  sold," 
What  volumes  lie  in  the  words  just  told; 
For  they  prove  at  once  of  a  wrathful  lust, 
And  the  thieving  faith  of  a  thief's  distrust. 

CHIEF—  rings  bell  again  —  goods  being  brought: 

Attention  all !  I've  a  bankrupt  stock 
To  offer  here  from  the  auction  block  ! 


THE   MISSIONARY.  31 

The  firm  is  fractured  and  gone  to  —  well 
The  goods  are  here  and  I've  got  to  sell. 

Laughs  and  cheers. 

How  much  ?  how  much  ?  how  much  for  this? 
A  necklace  snatched  from  the  throat  of  a  Miss  — 
Well  never  mind !  for  the  Miss  is  cold ! 
Ten  dollars  !  once  — twice  —  thrice—  and  sold  ! 

LELAH  —  shuddering: 

"The  maid  is  cold  but  it  matters  not," 
Was  it  a  test  by  the  Fatal  Shot  ? 
My  brother  ?  no  !  tho'  his  sins  are  rife 
I  will  not  believe  he  has  taken  life. 

CHIEF  — rings  bell: 

Well  here  we  go  !  here's  a  jewel  case  ! 
And  a  photograph  of  a  monkey's  face ! 
Who  bids  ?  who  bids  ?  ten  dollars  !  no  I 
Say  twenty-five !  right !  that's  a  go  ! 

Crowd  —  ho  ho  ! !  ho  ho ! ! 

Well  this-ere  business  hangs  the  court, 
I'll  make  this  auction  quick  and  short: 
Rings,  diamonds,  lockets,  watches,  all, 
All  going  at  one  final  call. 

One  hundred  !  fifty !  that  won't  do  ! 
Two  hundred  !  fifty  !  are  you  through? 
Three  hundred  !  yes !  three  hundred !  gold  ! 
Fair  warning  gents  !  three  hundred  !  sold  ! 

LELAH  —  looking  at  brother  sitting  near: 

O  could  I  speak  to  him,  but  vain 
To  court  hopes  pale  and  distant  train; 


32  THE    MISSIONARY. 

One  little  word,  one  passing  breath, 
May  haste  him  to  a  hurried  death. 

SI  — rises;  comes  down  front,  opposite  sides 

She  knows  me  !  yes,  I  heard  her  sigh, 
And  I  read  the  truth  in  her  eager  eye; 
I  cannot  smother  love's  old  flame, 
And  still  I  dare  not  breathe  her  name. 

That  heartless  court  will  soon  decide, 
And  that  decision  must  abide; 
Their  motto  —  none  will  ever  fly, 
"  Who  enters  here  must  surely  die." 

CHIEF  — sternly: 

Attention  all !  come  Fatal  Shot, 
Each  member,  be  he  king  or  sot, 
Must  fill  his  all  important  place 
In  trial  on  so  grave  a  case. 

Council  gathers  in  circle. 

My  friends:  the  trial  here  in  store 
A  stranger's  entry  at  our  door. 
What  does  her  presence  signify  ? 

All  answer  —  pointing  motto: 

"Who  enters  here  must  surely  die." 

Go  Captains,  go  and  lead  her  forth, 
A  jewel  true  of  matchless  worth. 
Ah !  cruel  was  that  fateful  road 
That  led  her  to  this  dread  abode. 

And  is  there  one  would  vote  her  free  ? 

All  shake  heads  —  groan. 

(The  court  decides  her  penalty). 


THE    MISSIONARY.  33 

You  answer  no !  a  union's  choice, 
I  hear  not  one  dissenting  voice. 

And  is  there  no  unguarded  gape 
By  which  the  fair  one  may  escape 
In  honor  ?  and  with  honor  due 
The  judgment  of  our  bandit  crew  ? 

All  answer:  No!  No!  No!  No! 

Then  be  it  so  !  and  cry  the  word  ! 
Say  must  she  die  by  shot  or  sword  ? 

All  lift  swords. 

Enough  !  enough  !  the  verdict  said 
And  lifted  is  each  trusty  blade. 

And  who  among  this  daring  row 
Will  volunteer  to  strike  the  blow  ? 
I  see  you  tremble !  cowards  all ! 
I  issue  an  impartial  call. 

A  color  draft  of  red  and  black, 
And  each  in  turn  must  draw  his  check; 
Plain  sighted,  square  to  every  eye 
The  winner  then  must  do  or  die. 

So  place  the  rack,  a  double  hue 
In  colors  perfect,  rich  and  new; 
The  crimson  boons  a  lease  of  breath, 
The  sable  strikes  the  blow  of  death. 

Forming  n  single  file  they  draw  tags  in  order;  each  passing  to  the 
opposite  side  after  drawing,  holding  his  tag  up  in  full  sight.  Chief  — 
after  each  draw  keeps  crying: 

Not  yet !  not  yet !  not  yet !  not  yet ! 
Go,  draftsman  go,  the  die  is  set ! 


34  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Go,  draftsman  go,  the  die  is  set ! 
Not  yet !  not  yet !  not  yet !  not  yet ! 

SI  —  draws  black  tag : 

Great  God !  great  God !  it  was  my  lot ! 

ALL  CRY: 

The  Fatal  Shot!  the  Fatal  Shot! 
See !  see !  the  cold  black  banner !  so 
The  Fatal  Shot,  he  strikes  the  blow  ? 

CHIEF: 

Then  bring  the  victim !  place  her  there ' 
Hand-pinioned  in  that  heavy  chair; 
Now  lady  would  you  pray  or  sing, 
Then  hasten  with  your  offering. 

LELAH: 

No  special  word,  contented  still 

To  do  my  Master's  holy  will; 

And  trust  the  arm  that  ruled  the  wave, 

That  arm  is  mighty  still  to  save. 

CHIEF: 

Then  bandage  well  the  lady's  eyes, 
And  heaven  soon  shall  have  the  prize. 

TO  SI. 

Your  station  here,  it  is  your  lot, 
And  may  you  prove  a  fatal  shot. 

A  beat  of  drum !  and  be  you  slow, 
Death,  staring  from  that  silent  row, 
Will  speak  from  out  her  fiery  heart 
And  snuff  you  with  a  leaden  dart. 

One  moment !  and  the  ticking  time 
Will  count  it  out  in  solemn  rhyme; 


THE    MISSIONARY.  36 

Each  clucking  note  will  dash  a  part 
And  fall  across  your  beating  heart. 

One  moment  passes,  still  enough  to  hear  clock  tick  —  drum  sounds. 
Si  springs  forward  with  lifted  sword,  grabs  bandage  with  his  left 
hand  and  pulls  it  off —turns,  drops  sword. 
SI: 

My  God  !  it  is  my  sister !  no ! 
Don't  ask  me  strike  the  fatal  blow ! 
Take  my  poor  life  and  let  her  live  ! 
God  knows  I  have  not  more  to  give ! 

CHIEF:    * 

Then  you  refuse  ?  thus  challenge  fate ! 
And  sir!  you'll  not  have  long  to  wait ! 
Your  lease  of  life  is  duly  sold ! 
Ready  !  aim !  one,  two,  hold !  hold  ! 

Lelah  has  risen  and  stands  before  him  to  shield  him. 
LELAH: 

You  shall  not  kill  him !  draw  your  line 
And  shatter  this  poor  heart  of  mine! 
But  spare !  O  spare  my  brother's  life 
For  sister's  sake !  for  child  and  wife ! 

CHIEF: 

Undaunted  still !  and  sweet  as  brave ! 
Full  trusting  in  that  power  to  save; 
I  bow  me  with  revering  head 
And  name  thee  Chieftain  in  my  stead. 

My  noble  band  have  followed  me 
O'er  troubles  dark  and  stormy  sea, 
Like  faithful  kings  to  do  my  will, 
And  they  will  grant  to  do  it  still. 

Bandits  all  kneel  on  one  knee  and  lift  hats  to  Chief. 


36  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Then  be  it  so!  I  do  prefer 
That  each  and  all  shall  follow  her, 
And  from  this  hour,  this  very  night, 
March  onward  to  the  fields  of  light. 

Lead,  noble  Chieftain !  lead  the  way ! 
Our  hearts  are  burning  to  obey; 
And  where  thou  lead,  to  left  or  right, 
We'll  follow  thee  in  every  fight. 

LELAH: 

Then  will  I  lead  them,  one  and  all, 

To  charge  on  Zion's  lofty  wall, 

With  wreathed  spears  and  shields  of  light, 

We  cannot  fail  to  win  the  fight  ? 

Fall  in  !  fall  in  !  I'll  lead  you  through, 
Your  armor  shall  be  light  and  new; 
It  is  the  armor  love  would  bring, 
And  marching  onward  we  will  sing: 

We're  marching  onward  to  Zion,  Zion,  Zion, 
We're  marching  onward  to  Zion,  City  of  our  Lord 

Continue  in  song  and  march  till  curtain  falls ! 


BAY  BESSIE.-P.  37. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  37 


BAY  BESSIE. 

Yes,  indeed !  there's  no  doubt  all  you  fellows  can  tell 
So  much  better  than  I  and  my  jolly  old  pal, 
What  to  do  best,  providing  a  tempest  should  come 
And  lay  its  white  grip  on  the  poor  miner's  home; 
You  would  do  many  things,  to  be  sure  J    (in  your 

minds), 

When  the  great  king  of  clouds  in  its  wandering  finds 
You  have  drifted  to  sea,  it  is  that,  nothing  more, 
You  are  helpless  as  tho"'  you  were  there  without  oar. 

How  well  I  remember  an  instance,  not  old, 
When  Jeff  and  Old  Rog  and  myself,  digging  gold, 
Were  surprised  by  a  visit  from  one  of  those  things 
Termed  "tempests of  terror  with  turbulent  wings;". 
We  had  labored  all  day  in  our  alleys  of  dust 
And  had  chiselled  quite  far  in    the  old  mountain's 

bust, 

The  dim  light  of  candles  yet  pointing  the  way, 
And  dirt  had  washed  well  all  that  beautiful  day. 

And  now  as  the  sun  was  just  shadowing  down 
O'er  the  one  lonely  hut  in  that  far  mountain  town, 
We  had  stood  sledge  and  drill  by  the  rock-wall,  and 

sought 
Quiet  rest  on  the   "dump"  that  our  labors   had 

bought, 

And  expectant  of  naught,  half  in  dreams  of  the  past, 
We  were  back  with  old  friends  in  the  distance  at 

last; 


38  THE   MISSIONARY. 

(It  is  strange  how  the  heart  will  lean  back  to  the  old, 
E'en  amid  the  wild  fevers,  and  fighting  for  gold.) 

But  hark !  what  is  that  that  so  nimble-like  springs 
Down  the  rock-carpet  lain,  till  the  old  canon  rings  ? 
It  is  Frank!    Spanish  Frank!    and    the  lightning 

mare  rules  — 

To  the  light  Loriette,  he  is  searching  for  mules. 
Had  we  seen  them  ?  ah  no,  not  a  thing  for  a  week, 
He  must  go  farther  down  God's  great  pasture  to  seek, 
Farther  down  through  the  rust  of  the  old  canon's 

mouth, 
To  the  springs  where  the  trail  stumbles  in  from  the 

south. 

With  a  touch  of  the  spur  he  is  gone,  and  again, 
Iron  echoes  come  back  up  the  steeps  of  the  glen, 
And  the  long  shadows  cross  on  the  valley  at  will, 
Or  like  ghosts  slowly  climb  up  the  opposite  hill; 
And  the  pines  on  the  peaks,  where  the  gold  fringes 

lay, 

Chant  a  requiem  now  for  the  dying  of  day, 
The  coyote  crawls  forth  from  his  cavernous  home 
And  howls  a  glad  welcome  that  darkness  is  come. 

Ah  behold !  said  old  Rog,  there's  a  mist  on  the  moon, 
No  surprise  if  a  storm  should  be  breaking  o'er  soon, 
Wouldn't  care  to  be  now  where  that  rider  has  come 
With  a  prospect  like  this,  and  that  distance  from 

home. 

Mighty  lucky,  indeed,  if  he  makes  it  at  all, 
Even  now  I  can  hear  the  old  monitor  call. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  39 

Ah  !  there  goes  the  Spaniard  mare  running  at  will, 
They  will  meet  just  about  at  the  top  of  the  hill. 

Said  Jeff,  if  he  makes  it  the  chances  to  run, 
Will  sum  square  against  him  a  hundred  to  one, 
And  I  doubt  if  the  rnare  can  be  forced  in  the  face 
Of  a  tempest  that  runs  such  a  terrible  race; 
And  Wheeler !  old  chum,  very  neat  I  declare 
If  he  slip  from  the  mesh  of  this  venomous  snare. 
To-night  he  had  promised  returning  with  food, 
He  will  run  heavy  chances  to  make  his  words  good 

Put  a  light  in  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel  I  said, 

A  man  might  as  well  call  aloud  to  the  dead, 

As  to  waste  his  poor  breath  in  a  hope  we  would 

hear, 

Or  advance  the  least  sound  to  attract  a  man  near: 
Go  cry  to  the  tempest  and  listen  it  gloat 
As  it  crams  the  faint  sound  down  your  own    very 

throat, 

Go  grasp  at  the  tempest  whose  passions  are  stirred 
To  speed  that  out-wings  the  most  willing  of  birds. 

But  hold  !  here  is  Wheeler!  poor  man, what  a  sight, 
His  hands  they  are  frozen,  his  cheeks  are  as  white 
As  the  drifts  that  lay  deep  on  the  brow  of  the  night, 
And  he  says  (as  the  tears  melt  adown  through  the 

frost) 
God  must  know  how  I  prayed,  for  I  thought  myself 

lost, 

And  but  for  that  light  w'th  its  timmersome  stain 
I  ne'er  had  seen  Mary  and  baby  again. 


40  THE    MISSIONARY. 

All  night  the  wild  shrieks  of  the  tempest  were  sown, 
All  night  the  torn  pines  sueing  mercy,  made  moan, 
All  night  the  grim  rocks,  that  like  sentinels  stood, 
Were  piled  with  the  creams  of  that  quivering  flood; 
All  night  through  the  casement  of  window  and  door 
It  sowed   its  white  sands  on  the  the  miner's  rough 

floor; 

All  night  with  the  darkness,  and  yet  with  the  dawn, 
It  piled  its  cold  touches  of  death  on  the  lawn. 

Ah !  what  of  the  rider  whose  courage  must  dare 
To  face  such  a  fury,  and  what  of  the  mare, 
Behold  !  up  the  canon's  sown  levels  they  come 
Like  children  shut  out  from  love's  beautiful  home; 
Slow  breasting  the  storm  in  its  half-broken  flight 
Like  souls  straying  up  from  the  valley  of  night; 
Kind  welcome  to  rider  with  ample  of  cheer, 
But  God  in  His  mercy  must  care  for  the  mare. 

Poor  creature  of  fate  to  this  desolate  home, 
O  why  did  the  advent  of  chances  say  come; 
No  food  can  we  ofier,  no  shelter  from  storm, 
No  whispers  of  hope  that  may  keep  the  heart  warm. 
To  gather  from  sages  and  throw  at  your  feet 
That  only  starvation  might  force  yon  to  eat, 
Would  not  rule  to  comfort,  poor  creature,  at  all, 
Would  only  be  feeding  life's  bitters  with  gall. 

But  say !  (to  the  Spaniard,)  now  how  did  you  fail 
To  get  the  bay  beauty  safe  home  o'er  the  trail  ? 
You  see!  (said  the  Spaniard,)  poor  Bessy  is  young, 
And  when  the  storm  gathered  and  thickened  and 
stung, 


THE    MISSIONARY.  41 

And  poured  like  a  tide  through  the  gates  of  a  sea, 

It  crowded  so  hard  on  poor  Bessy  and  me 

That  the  mare,  I  suppose,  kind  of  shied  from  the 

track, 
And  the  footing  all  soft  she  could  not  feel  it  back. 

Some  will  blame  the  poor  Filly,  and  others  will  say 

It  were  easy  to  stay  on  the  trail  in  this  way, 

Just  dismount  from  the  mare,  bow  your  head  to  the 

sleet, 

And  trace  the  trail  easy  at  touch  of  the  feet; 
Now  this  is  fine  reason  as  any  may  know, 
Consider  that  this  is  the  first  fall  of  snow, 
The  trail  quite  as  level  as  rest  of  the  ground, 
And  snow  equal  softness  and  depth  all  around. 

That's  folly,  in  earnest  chum  Rogers  replied, 
In  cases  like  that  take  the  wind  for  a  guide; 
Yes  indeed  !  take  the  wind,  I'd  have  ran  a  queer  race, 
For  however  we  turned  it  was  square  in  the  face; 
It  swept  us  for  yards  from  the  reach  of  the  track, 
It  whirled  us  and  trailed  us  and  crowded  us  back; 
It  howled  from  the  northward,  it  screamed  from  the 

south, 
And  it  forced  us  back  down  the  black  canon's  great 

mouth. 

Poor  Bessy  was  faithful  as  any  I  know, 
But  how  could  she  go  where  no  creature  could  go, 
I  can't  blame  you,  Bessy,  I  don't  blame  you,  no! 
You  did  all  you  could  in  that  ocean  of  snow; 


42  THE    MISSIONARY. 

You  were  quick  to  respond,  you  were  faithful  my 

dear, 

You  were  brave,  (never  mind,  boys,  its  only  a  tear), 
Just  a  womanly  moment,  no  more  and  no  less, 
Out  of  sympathy  born  for  my  beautiful  Bess. 

Don't  mind,  boys,  I  know  you  consider  it  weak, 
But  nry  throat  gets  so  full  when  attempting  to  speak, 
And  my  heart  is  so  crammed  with  a  weight  of  dis 
tress 

When  I  think  of  you  Bessy,  poor  beautiful  Bess: 
I  can't  blame  you  Bessy,(don't  mind, boys, the  tears,) 
My  faithful  companion  three  wearisome  years, 
It  comes  kind  o'  hard  after  that,  boys,  you  know, 
To  see  Bessy  buried  out  here  in  the  snow. 

Three  days  did  the  tempest  scream  terror  and  strife, 
And  reach  its  cold  hands  to  rob  Bessy  of  life; 
Three  days,  from  the  crest  of  those  mountains,  the 

snow 

Was  sifted  like  down  on  the  valley  below; 
Three  days,  on  the  reach  of  that  valley  to  roam, 
It  piled  its  cold  walls  around  Bessy's  wild  home; 
Three  days,  that  like  years  must  have  flown  to  poor 

Bess, 
In  that  anguish  of  hunger  and  frozen  distress. 

But  lo  !  as  a  passion  spends  fury  at  last, 
That  tempest  itself  'came  a  thing  of  the  past; 
And  so  its  sown  furies  all  trackless  and  mild 
Lay  quiet  and  pure  as  the  sleep  of  a  child. 
No  voice  of  contention,  no  murmur  of  ill, 


THE    MISSIONARY.  43 

No  charge  of  wild  legions  on  valley  and  hill; 
One  grand  reach  of  silence,  and  softness  of  light 
Arrayed  in  God's  great  grasping  garment  of  white. 

Fine  day  for  adventure,  said  Rogers,  and  yet 
Hard  feature  to  go  from- this  valley  "you  bet," 
Six  feet  on  the  level  that  carpet  and  more, 
Each  pass  will  be  doubled  a  dozen  times  o'er; 
I  know,  said  the  Spaniard,  the  passes  are  piled, 
I  know  too  my  parents  are  troubled  and  wild, 
Three  days   have  they  watched    for  my  coming  in 

vain, 
Three  days  have  they  prayed  for  my  coming  again. 

But  Bessy,  poor  Bess,  I  must  leave  to  her  fate, 
She  can't  make  the  pass  at  the  valleys  great  gate; 
No  more  can  you  make  it,  said  Rogers,  no  more, 
You  both  have  been  sanded  along  the  same  shore. 
What  use  for  those  petty  vexations  and  tears, 
Those  mountains  of  snow  are  your  masterly  peers; 
To  scale  them  indeed,  if  assistance  be  thrown, 
You  might  on  the  morrow,  you  cannot  alone. 

Again  on  the  morrow,  determined  to  go, 
Two  stalwarts  press  forth  through  the  pitiless  snow, 
And  by  the  exertion  of  muscle  and  mind, 
And  double  assistance  of  kind  unto  kind; 
A  pride  of  progression,  a  purpose  of  will, 
They  jast  seem  to  move  on  the  merciless  hill; 
The  great  effort  conquers,  the  sun  hardly  dies 
Ere  they  wave  their  brown  hands  in  the  face  of  the 
skies. 


44  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Now  the  days  roll  along  with  their  troubles  in  store, 
We  bang  hard  at  the  mine,  we  can  do  little  more 
Save  to  pause  on  the  dump  and  to  look  in  despair, 
And  conjecture  the  fate  of  that  spirited  mare. 
She  has  swam  the  white  surf  and  is  pulling  at  will, 
From  the  low  nearlie  shrubs  on  the  steep  of  the  hill 
Where  the  snow  has  blown  thin,  and  the  rocks  are 

half  bare, 
She  can  cull  just  the  faintest  of  substances  there. 

So  we  watch  every  day  her  progression,  and  know 
That  eacli  day  settles  down,  and  slow  hardens  the 

snow 

As  she  climbs,  faithful  child  of  misfortune,  and  still 
Gains  a  reach  every  day  up  the  run  of  the  hill. 
She  will  win,  said  Old  Bog,  as  he  gazed  from  the 

dump, 

She  could  make  the  top  now,  it  appears,  at  a  jump, 
She  will  make,  she  has  made  it!  hurrah, never  die! 
See,  she  stands  just  a  speck  twixt  the  base  and  the 

sky. 

Well,  we  just  gave  our  old  dirty  hats  the  best  swing, 
And  we  yelled  till  we  made  that  old  canon  just  ring, 
For  we  knew,  or  at  least  we  just  thought  that  we 

knew 
As  the  mare  was   on   top  she  would   surely  pull 

through. 

But  the  rider,  indeed !  and  for  shame  to  declare, 
Once  at  home,  nevermore    sympathized    with  the 

mare, 


GO  LEAD  THEM.— P.  45. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  45 

And  the  fraud  of  a  heart  that  pretended  to  bleed, 
Never  held  the  least  right  o'er  the   heart  of   the 
steed. 

All  ambitious  to  gain  from  a  charity  sown, 

He  had  grieved  unto  tears  and  had  termed  her  his 

own; 
tie  had  played  the  thing  well,  (for  his  own  blessed 

part) 

And  won  sympathy  too  for  a  carbonate  heart; 
For  we  trusted  the  rhune  of  that  adderous  tongue, 
And  by  the  deceit  of  its  murmurs  were  stung ; 
His  "can't  blame  you  Bessy,"  with  tears  falling  hot 
Wf '  a  charity  push  for  a  double  Jack-pot. 


GO  LEAD  THEM. 

O  call  the  pinioned  eagle  down 

And  loose  the  quiet  dove, 
Fling  out  the  banners  of  the  town 

On  chords  of  yielding  love; 
Stuff  hard  the  cannon's  rusty  throat, 

The  musket's  mouth  of  blaze, 
And  bid  a  million  voices  float 

The  eloquence  of  praise. 

So  let  the  bells  with  silvered  tone 
Ring  through  the  jeweled  morn, 

And  double  depth  of  volume  thrown, 
Breathe  from  the  drinking  horn; 


46  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Till  like  an  echo  sweet  and  long 

Or  anthem  grand  to  soar, 
The  mingled  sound  "of  praise  and  song 

Shall  spread  from  shore  to  shore. 

And  North  and  South  and  East  and  West, 

Howe'er  the  lines  may  run, 
The  hearts  that  warm  a  nation's  breast, 

O  let  them  beat  as  one; 
And  hand  to  hand,  as  link  to  link 

Our  nation's  circuit  round, 
There  let  the  lips  of  reason  drink, 

And  name  it  holy  ground. 

Ring  up  the  lines  of  faded  blue ! 

Of  sere  and  fading  gray  ! 
Equip  them  with  an  armor  new 

Torn  from  the  fields  of  May; 
With  royal  rose  and  mignonette 

And  pansies  gemmed  with  dew, 
What  matters  it  that  cheeks  are  wet 

When  hearts  are  doubly  true  ? 

Go  lead  them  down  the  aisle  of  green, 

And  where  the  pines  are  tall, 
Where  Ivy  weaves  its  velvet  screen 

O'er  many  a  fortress  wall; 
Where  gaping  trenches  long  and  deep 

Spake  loud  from  lips  of  stain, 
And  haughty  soldiers  dared  to  weep 

Above  the  silent  slain. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  47 

Go  lead  them  where  the  hillsides  shone 

With  ranks  of  burnished  steel, 
And  clouds  of  trouping  thunders  thrown 

Gave  answer  peal  for  peal; 
While  lightning  played  its  dazzling  flame 

Around  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  blow  for  blow,  and  claim  for  claim 

Was  answered  back  again. 

Go  lead  them  where  the  red  drops  fell 

And  where  the  stained  tides  ran, 
Deep-plowed  with  many  a  hissing  shell, 

Swift  claiming  man  for  man; 
And  blue  and  gray  commingled  lay, 

And  night  and  day  were  one, 
The  while  the  storm-cloud  dared  to  play 

Between  the  earth  and  sun. 

Go  lead  them  where  the  soft  dews  weep 

As  in  the  days  gone  by, 
Where  quiet  reigns,  and  comrades  sleep 

Who  dared  to  do  and  die; 
Go  lead  them  there,  each  veteran  king 

With  bowed  and  reverent  head,! 
Will  dare  some  dainty  gift  to  fling 

Above  the  silent  dead. 

Go  lead  them  down  the  long  lone  way 

So  peopled  yet  so  still, 
Soft  be  the  martial  notes  that  stray 

Each  shadow-bending  hill; 


48  THE    MISSIONARY. 

And  soft  the  beat  of  muffled  drum 

Slow  rolling  on  to  rest, 
The  while  life's  troubled  pendulum 

Swings  hard  against  the  breast. 

Go  lead  them  there,  and  leading  say: 

God's  praise!  Thy  will  be  done  ! 
While  comrades  snow  the  sweets  of  May 

O'er  many  a  sleeping  one; 
Till  piled  above  the  common  lawn 

The  love  of  life  is  told, 
From  lips  that  pray  the  brighter  dawn, 

And  hearts  of  shining  gold. 

Here  let  the  cold  black  envy  die 

The  long  black  shadows  sleep, 
Nor  let  the  lips  of  scorn  decry 

The  heart  that  dares  to  weep; 
For  all  the  troubled  past  is  done, 

And  all  the  future  new, 
Be  faith  by  love's  true  purpose  won 

To  crown  the  Gray  and  Blue. 

The  Ivy  climbs  the  fortress  wall 

And  hides  the  dark  decay, 
The  voice  of  reason  speaks  to  all 

From  floral  lips  of  May; 
And  whip-poor-will  with  notes  of  ease 

Pipes  down  the  setting  sun, 
While  o'er  the  reach  of  troubled  seas 

The  Gray  and  Blue  are  one. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  49 

Then  build  love's  floral  arches  high 

And  lead  the  brave  hearts  through, 
And  while  the  long-stilled  voices  crj? 

The  "roll-call"  of  the  Blue; 
Let  some  familiar  tongue  of  old 

King  out  across  the  way, 
And  tell,  as  other  days  have  told, 

The  "roll-call  "  of  the  Gray. 

The  missing  ones  are  many  now, 

The  bugle  calls  in  yain ; 
They  answer  not  from  mountain  brow, 

Nor  Answer  from  the  plain. 
Nor  yet  from  out  the  valley's  deep, 

Nor  by  the  rolling  stream; 
They  sleep  that  sweet  befitting  sleep 

That  knows  no  troubled  dream. 

They  met  us  when  the  cannon  rolled 

Its  dark  wreaths  over-head, 
They  met  us  when  its  lips  were  cold 

And  counted  dead  for  dead; 
They  met  us  at  the  burial  tide, 

And  in  one  tender  way, 
We  laid  our  comrades  side  by  side, 

The  Blue  beside  the  Gray. 

Some  loved  the  brave  unyielding  Blue, 

And  fought  the  flag  with  tears; 
That  flag  their  fathers  carried  through 

The  mists  of  stormy  years. 


50  THE    MISSIONARY 

That  flag  that  waved  at  Bunker's  height, 

A  father's  chosen  gem, 
Leaned  out  across  the  stormy  night 

And  beckoned  unto  them. 

They  come !  they  come !  from  field  and  town ! 

By  sylvan  wood  and  stream ! 
The  scourge  of  envy  trampled  down 

Like  love's  unmeasured  dream. 
They  come!  they  mingle!  Blue  and  Gray  ! 

That  old  flag  overhead  ! 
And  soldiers  tread  the  flowery  way 

To  crown  the  noble  dead. 


SUSANNAH. 

Do  I  love  her  ?  Mortal  man  ! 
Can  you  for  one  moment  scan 
Face  like  hers  and  idly  say, 
Do  you  love  her  ?  Is  she  gay  ? 
Sweet  to  me  as  smiles  of  heaven ! 
It  is  seldom  such  are  given, 
And  it  puzzles  me  to  see 
How  God  gave  that  face  to  me. 

Not  so  stylish,  that  I'll  own, 
As  my  wayward  life  has  known; 
Not  so  handsome  ?  maybe  not, 
Here  you  touch  a  tender  spot. 
Let  me  tell  you,  that  to  me 
She  is  beauty's  garden  tree, 


THE    MISSIONARY.  51 

Tho1  her  splendors  be  not  laid 
Under  paint  and  powder  shade. 

Not  the  tickle  "Goddess  "  art, 
Beauty  dwells  around  the  heart; 
And  her  beauty  is  a  flood, 
Warm  and  gushing  in  the  blood. 
And  a  touch  of  paradise 
Ever  lingers  in  her  eyes; 
Handsome  ?  I  shall  term  her  so, 
Tho'  a  world  should  answer  no. 

Do  1  love  her  ?  do  I  start  ? 
Well,  you  crossed  my  beating  heart 
With  a  question  that  would  sire 
Any  honest  heart  afire. 
Yes  sir!  she  is  life  to  me, 
Grand  and  gracious  as  a  sea! 
And  her  noble  womanhood 
Is  an  ocean  vast  and  good. 

Christened  in  the  silver  spray, 
Love  has  scattered  day  by  day, 
And  the  thousand  comforts  planned 
By  her  sweet  and  helpful  hand; 
Can  you  wonder  I  should  feel 
Keenly  as  a  touch  of  steel, 
Tenure  of  your  question  knife 
Pointing  to  the  throne  of  life. 

Do  I  love  her  ?  and  how  well  ? 
Did  you  dream  that  I  could  tell  ? 
Is  there  method  yet  to  prove  V 


52  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Proper  ties  that  measure  love  ? 
Deeper  than  the  deepest  sea  ! 
Higher  than  the  skies  may  be ! 
Farther  than  the  border  wall ! 
Well  I  love  her !  that  is  all. 

Yes,  the  hands  are  brown  and  tan, 
Toil  has  made  them  so,  my  man; 
Labor  that  has  lifted  woe, 
That  it  was  !  that  made  them  so. 
And  her  brow  is  over-run 
By  the  rambles  of  the  sun, 
Pearl  in  bronze,  and  mingled  true, 
Sunbeams  kissing  eyes  of  blue. 

When  the  shadows  lean  and  stray. 
And  the  cares  of  life  would  lay, 
Mortgage  on  the  tired  soul 
Drifting  where  the  billows  roll. 
And  the  last  redeeming  hour 
Purples  like  a  frosted  flower, 
Then  her  presence  glimmers  through, 
Morning-glory  steeped  in  dew. 

Do  I  love  her  ?  Mortal  man  ! 
Can  you  for  one  moment  scan 
Face  like  hers  and  idly  say: 
Do  you  love  her  ?  Is  she  gay  ? 
Sweet  Susannah !  blessed  wife ! 
I  shall  love  her  all  my  life ! 
Handsome  ?  I  shall  term  her  so, 
Tho'  a  world  should  answer  no.     e 


SHREDDED  BLUE.-P.  53. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  53 

SHREDDED  BLUE. 

OB 
THEY"  COUNTED  ME  ONE  OF  THE  MEN. 

I'm  only  a  wandering  tramp, 

Spending  night  after  night  on  the  street; 
All  alone  with  the  dark  and  the  damp, 

And  my  thoughts  more  of  bitter  than  sweet. 
For  they  croon  to  me  day  after  day 

As  I  stalk  through  the  streets  of  the  town, 
How  the  young  and  the  fair  and  the  gay,  , 

With  the  frost-biting  years  may  go  down. 
How  the  pangs  of  misfortune  will  come 

Like  a  blight  where  the  bright  laurels  grow; 
And  ghouls  make  invasions  of  home 

Till  its  idols  are  shattered  with  woe. 
But  I'm  only,  I'm  only  a  tramp, 

Why  conjecture  of  themes  such  as  these, 
All  alone  with  the  dark  and  the  damp, 

Chilly  words  of  the  whispering  breeze. 
Chilly  words  of  the  whispering  breeze  V 
How  they  moan  through  the  boughs  of  the  trees, 

How  they  groan  and  they  moan  as  they  say: 

"You  are  only  a  tramp  in  the  way, 

But  a  poor  ragged  tramp  in  the  way." 
How  they  clatter  the  rags  at  my  side! 

How  they  scream  through  these   locks  turning 


gray 


As  tho'  pain  unto  them  were  a  pride, 

' '  You're  a  poor  ragged  tramp  in  the  way, 
But  a  poor  ragged  tramp  in  the  way." 


54  THE    MISSIONARY. 

How  they  press  their  cold  hands  to  my  breast ! 

How  they  feel  through  these  rags  to  ray  heart ! 
This  poor  raiment  that  once  was  a  vest, 

Scarce  a  vistage  of  warmth  can  impart. 
And  my  coat,  ah !  reminded  of  you 

Takes  me  back  to  the  front  once  again, 
How  you  filled  in  the  lines  of  the  blue  ! 

And  they  counted  me  one  of  the  men  ! 
Yes,  they  counted  me  one  of  the  men ! 

There  was  plenty  of  room  for  us  then ! 
, In  the  lines  to  be  filled  with  the  blue 

There  was  room  both  for  me  and  for  you  ! 
Well  we  filled  it,  old  pard, 

Yes,  we  filled  all  the  room  that  we  could; 
And  it  seems  they  are  treating  us  hard, 

I'm  sure  we  did  something  of  good ! 
When  I  see  the  old  flag  floating  out 

From  casement  and  pillar  and  dome, 
It  seems  as  tho'  somewhere  about, 

They  might  find  us  poor  creatures  a  home. 
Well,  you're  only  a  remnant  of  shade, 

I'm  only  a  remnant  of  man, 

But  we  stood  at  the  front  when  the  wild  music 
played, 

And  did  all  that  anyone  can. 
At  Shiloh's  grim  paintings  of  hell 

We  fought  like  two  kings  for  a  throne, 
These  scars  from  the  burst  of  a  shell 

You  never  have  fully  outgrown; 
And  bless  me!  how  faded  you  are, 

I've  heard  of  things  overly  ripe, 


THE    MISSIONARY.  65 

But  (barring  each  honorous  scar) 

You're  some  of  the  vagabond  type. 
You  really  are  fading  away, 

And  I  tell  you,  old  friend,  that  to-night, 
It  would  trouble  the  devil  to  say 

You  were  ever  trimmed  up  with  the  bright, 
Or  were  black  or  were  blue  or  were  gray, 

You've  come  to  so  dreadful  a  plight. 
By  the  Gods  of  all  wars  I  will  say, 

I'll  not  don  these  black  tatters  again  ! 
No  !  I'll  hurl  the  poor  fragments  away ! 

They  counted  me  one  of  the  men ! 
Yes,  they  counted  me  one  of  the  men 

When  cannon  boomed  firey  and  hot, 
When  chances  were  seven  to  ten 

The  poor  soldier  be  slain  on  the  spot. 
When  clatter  of  saber  and  shield 

Kang  loud  with  their  challenging  stroke, 
And  chargers,  wild  neighing,  were  wheeled 

Like  thunders  in  circles  of  smoke. 
*         *         # 

They  counted  me  one  of  the  men 

When  all  this  wild  clamor  was  still, 
When  peace  like  an  angel,  again, 

Settled  down  upon  valley  and  hill. 
When  sabers  were  hung  to  the  wall, 

And  love  sought  the  absent  of  years, 
Till  favor  had  answered  the  call 

And  dewed  them  with  valleys  of  tears. 
They  counted  me  one  of  the  men, 


56  THE    MISSIONARY. 

As  we  marched  through  the  throng-bordered 

street. 
They  cheer'd  us,  again  and  again , 

And  blossoms  were  strewn  at  our  feet. 
And  welcome,  glad  welcome,  was  told 

From  eyes  beaming  over  witli  bliss. 
While  lips  that  were  richer  than  gold 

Gave  love  back  her  own  honeyed  kiss. 
But  oh !  there  was  tidings  for  me, 

That  stung,  O,  they  stung  me  so  deep. 
Can  eyes,  burning  eyes,  ever  see  ? 

Can  eyes,  burning  eyes,  ever  weep? 
Ah  no  !  not  a  flame-quenching  tear 

To  soothe  the  wild  pain  at  my  heart, 
And  no  !  not  a  zephyr  was  there, 

To  fend  the  warm  ashes  apart. 
To  fend  the  warm  ashes  apart, 

And  give  back  the  light  of  my  heart, 
And  give  back  the  light  of  my  home, 

White  arms  that  had  ever  said  "come." 

0  lips  that  were  sweeter  than  June, 
Brown  eyes  that  were  limpid  and  deep, 

Brown  locks,  where  the  wind's  silken  tune 
Oft  cradled  its  numbers  to  sleep. 

Yes!  there  in  the  ashes  they  layl 
Nor  whiter-born  ashes  than  they  ! 

The  light  of  that  beautiful  home, 
And  all  that  had  bidden  me  come. 

1  bowed  down  my  head,  and  was  still, 

And  the  lingering  winds,  seemed  to  say, — 


THE    MISSIONARY.         .  57 

"She  has  flown,  to  that  beautiful  hill, 

Go  away,  go  away,  go  away." 
I'm  only,  I'm  only  a  tramp ; 

They  counted  me  one  of  the  men. 
There's  a  cloud  hanging  over  the  camp, 

111  go  back  to  my  hovel  again, 
The  night  is  so  cold,  and  so  damp. 

I'll  go  back  to  the  friend  that  is  true. 
To  the  friend  that  is  better  than  men, 

Tho'  it  be  but  a  shred  of  the  blue, 
I  will  say  I  arn  with  you  again  I 

Old  acquaintance  should  ever  be  tied, 
But  I  —  somehow  I  feel  a  chagrin 

Stealing  down  o'er  a  passion  of  pride, 
And  I  wonder  can  flattery  win 

Back  the  friend  I  have  hurled  from  my  side? 
And  I  wonder,  if  won  by  its  song, 

Will  it  be  the  same  friend  as  of  yore, 
Will  its  love  for  my  love  be  as  strong 

As  the  love  that  had  known  it  before  ? 
How  you  filled  in  the  lines  of  the  blue 

As  the  ranks  circled  valley  and  glen  ! 
How  we  stormed  the  dark  woods  through  and 
through  — 

And  they  counted  me  one  of  the  men, 
Yes,  they  counted  me  one  of  the  men 

As  the  lines  circled  valley  and  glen ! 
Well !  we  parted  for  many  a  year, 

When  the  thunders  of  battle  were  o'er, 
Until  tortures  that  poverty's  fear 


58  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Drove  me  back  to  your  wide-open  door. 
You  were  scarred  and  disfigured  and  old, 

I  was  scarred  and  be-wrinkled  and  gray, 
But  you  gathered  me  in  from  the  cold, 

And  you  crowded  the  tempest  away. 
Have  I  shown  thee  a  gratitude  then? 

Ah  indeed  !  the  false  pride  of  the  eyes, 
How  they  steal  from  the  reasons  of  men 

The  charms  of  a  heart's  grandest  prize. 
But,  I'm  only,  I'm  only  a  tramp, 

Gazing  out  at  the  cold  silver  moon. 
The  dews  they  are  heavy  and  damp, 

And  the  winds  strike  a  sorrowful  tune. 
As  the  morn  leads  the  stars  into  camp, 

Do  the  winds  strike  a  sorrowful  tune? 
They  will  play  for  my  inarch,  through  the  day  ! 

They  will  waft  me  the  roses  of  June 
As  they  brought  me  the  blossoms  of  May. 

They  have  played  the  wild   medley  of  joys, 
As  they  trailed  o'er  the  camps  in  the  south, 

And,  they  crooned  lullaby  for  the  boys 
Going  down  at  the  cannon's  black  mouth. 

They  have  whispered  of  love  and  of  tears, 
And  of  hours  that  were  heavy,  and  light, 

And  they  breath  of  the  long  vanished  years, 
With  a  voice  half  exultant  to-night, 

As  they  bring  back  the  forms  of  the  true, 
As  they  paint  the  wild  battles  again, 

Where  you  filled  in  the  lines  of  the  blue, 
And  they  counted  me  one  of  the  men. 


THE  MARBLE  WAY.-P.  59. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  59 


THE  MARBLE  WAY. 

I  passed  along  each  qniet  lane, 

The  earth  was  cold  and  still, 
For  winter  drew  her  crystal  chain, 

Above  each  quiet  hill. 

The  leaning  marble,  lifted  long, 

Held  high  its  page  of  art, 
Or  crooned  a  lay  of  parting  song, 

That  quivered  through  the  heart. 

A  tiny  lambkin  nestled  here, 

And  there,  a  silent  rose, 
Drew  from  the  soul  a  gleaming  tear, 

That  trembled  while  it  froze. 

Still  on  and  on  my  rambles  led, 
From  chiseled  stone  to  stone, 

Till  query  crossed  me  at  the  bed 
Of  one  that  I  had  known. 

Did'st  read  the  name  that  art  had  dewed 

On  that  imposing  spire  ? 
'Tis  sweet  to  all,  O,  "Ericshrud  !" 

Than  soul  of  love  and  fire. 

Thou  king  !  among  a  kingly  few, 
Who  walked  time's  wayward  sand, 

And  golden  deeds  of  mercy  threw 
From  heart  and  soul  and  hand. 


60  THE    MISSIONARY. 

No  shriveled  sketch  of  life  was  thii:c, 

No  meanness  to  the  poor, 
A  star  of  trust  in  love  to  shine, 

At  sorrow's  darkest  door. 

As  birdlings  seek  the  cliffy  shade 
When  tempests  shake  the  air, 

Sweet  children  flew  to  thee  for  aid, 
And  found  a  father  there. 

And  manhood  with  its  mighty  care, 
Sought  council  day  by  day, 

Till  reason  drew  its  circle  there, 
And  drove  the  grief  away. 

Long  may  thy  ashes  rest  in  peace ! 

And  thy  dear,  sacred  name 
Be  chiseled  in  an  endless  lease, 

On  shining  page  of  fame. 

Rest,  noble  heart !  yon  sunbeam  hurled, 
High  blazing  from  its  throne, 

Like  thee  at  death  will  leave  the  world 
The  brighter  that  it  shone. 


SISTER  FRANKIE.-P.  6L 


THE    MISSIONARY.  61 

SISTEK  FRANKIE. 

IN    SPRING. 

My  sister, 

I  kissed  her, 
When  buds  were  a  start, 

With  fashion 

Of  passion 
That  tempered  the  heart, 

And  lifted, 

And  drifted, 
And  circled  and  drew, 

A  story 

Of  glory 
From  diamonds  of  dew. 

A  vendor 

Of  splendor 
That  sank  to  repose, 
On  breast  of  the  lily 
And  heart  of  the  rose. 

IN  SUMMER. 

My  sister, 

I  kissed  her, 
And  guided  her  feet, 

Through  shadows, 

And  meadows, 
And  tangles  of  wheat. 

By  river 


62  THE   MISSIONARY. 

A  quiver 
In  zephyrs  of  noon, 

And  pilfer 

Of  silver 
Spilt  down  from  the  moon. 

Through  valleys, 

And  alleys, 

And  ways  that  were  fair, 
With  birds  pouring  music 
From  circles  of  air. 

IN    AUTUMN. 

My  sister, 
I  kissed  her, 

When  autumn  was  red. 
With  dotage 
Of  fruitage 

That  hung  overhead. 

When  pleasure, 
With  measure, 

Like  opals  and  gold, 
Shone  over 
The  clover 

That  billowed  and  rolled. 
An  ocean, 
In  motion, 

Unceasing  and  long, 

With  charm  of  devotion 

And  cypher  of  song. 


THE   MISSIONARY.  63 

IN    WINTER. 

My  sister, 

I  kissed  her, 
When  lakelet  and  land, 

Lay  cold 

In  the  fold 
Of  a  great  jeweled  hand, 

And  tost 

Of  a  frost 
With  its  glitter  and  glow, 

Found  rest 

On  the  breast 
Of  the  blast-beaten  snow, 

And  bright 

Was  the  light 
Of  the  stars'  silver  course, 
Where  bells  gurgled  music 
To  master  and  horse.  • 

IN    MEMORY. 

My  sister, 

1  kissed  her, 
The  kiss  of  a  child. 

A  tender 

Surrender 
Impulsive  and  mild. 

Devotion ! 

Devotion ! 
Indeed !  it  was  this ! 

That  fed  me, 


64  THE    MISSIONARY. 

And  led  me, 
To  offer  that  kiss. 
Now  older, 
And  bolder, 

To  meet  her  — what  then? 
I'd  kiss  her— my  sister, 
I'd  kiss  her  again. 


A  POET'S  CONSTANCY. 

The  morn  was  fresh,  with  odors  sweet, 
The  dews  and  roses  met  and  kissed, 
How  strange  a  human  should  insist, 

To  break  the  spell  with  noisy  feet. 

Well,  who  shall  blame  the  human  taste, 
Or  stay  the  restless  ways  of  man  ? 
'Twas  so  since  first  the  world  began, 

And  he  its  smiling  features  graced. 

Yet,  never  mind,  the  morn  was  fair, 
As  I  had  said  to  thee  at  first— 
On  every  side  the  blue-bells  burst, 

And  bow'd  above  the  maiden  hair. 

But  hush  !  I've  something  sweet  to  own  : 
Don't  breathe  it  to  a  soul  around ; 
A  secret  you  must  hold  profound  — 

But  surely,  are  we  quite  alone  ! 


THE    MISSIONARY.  65 

We  are?  Then  listen:  Just  one  year 
Since  little  Madge  and  I  had  met, 
Yes,  met  and  parted,  don't  forget, 

We  parted,  too,  with  many  a  tear. 

O,  how  I  loved  the  sweet,  shy  queen ! 
Parting,  we  could  not  speak  a  word, 
She  was  my  bosom's  singing-bird, 

And  separation's  pangs  were  keen. 

But  O,  how  quick  a  year  has  fled  ! 
To-day  our  happy  spirits  met, 
Her  dewy  lips  yet  warm  and  wet, 

As  in  the  days  that  now  are  dead. 

Ah !  few,  how  few,  can  understand, 
The  depth  of  hearts'  true  passion  lent, 
When  soul  meets  soul  in  pure  content, 

And  lingers,  loving,  hand  in  hand. 

See!  yonder  where  those  myrtles  hide 
Their  globules  red  'neath  laurel  bows; 
To-day  again  renewed  the  vows, 

That  bind  her  to  become  my  bride. 

But,  Jenny  !  child !  how  pale  you've  grown  ! 
Why,  bless  you  dear !  what  makes  you  start, 
As  tho'  each  sentence  scorched  your  heart? 

Your  little  hands  are  cold  as  stone. 

Dissemble,  child,  I'm  dazed  to  know 
Your  love  for  me  is  so  intense;— 


66  THE    MISSIONARY. 


What !  that  your  father  on  the  fence ! 
It's  late !  1  guess  I'd  better  go. 


BATTLE  OF  CHICKAMAUGA. 

All  night,  in  anxious  waiting  lay, 
The  long  steel  lines  of  rebel  gray, 
And  vainly  pierced  the  darkness  through, 
To  view  the  moving  lines  of  blue  ; 
As  on  to  left,  and  on  to  right, 
Like  misty  minions  of  the  night, 
They  led  their  grand  battalions  forth, 
The  pride  of  all  the  shining  North. 

Line  after  line,  their  legions  gave, 
To  stand  by  forest,  nook  and  nave, 
And,  muffled  mists  of  moving  feet, 
Trailed  past  the  climbing  bitter-sweet. 
And  faster  still,  and  closer  drew, 
The  brave,  unflinching  fields  of  blue 
The  while,  like  waiting  tigers  lay, 
The  long  unyielding  lines  of  gray. 

And  who  shall  tell  the  wrong,  or  right, 
Or  winner  of  this  waiting  fight? 
Each  foe  has  tried  the  foeman's  steel, 
Each  fevered  heart  been  made  to  feel, 
That,  though  the  fight  be  lost  or  found, 
Each  sacred  inch  of  bloody  ground, 


THE    MISSIONARY.  67 

Would  cry  above  the  soldier's  grave 
Where  sleeps  the  ashes  of  the  brave. 

Now,  while  the  brave  heart  dares  to  fret, 
The  morning  breaks  all  warm  and  wet, 
And  suntides  shoot  their  fringe  of  gold 
Along  each  banner's  opal  fold. 
Hark  !  was  it  a  random  shot  ? 
No  !  no  !  the  fight !  the  fight !  and  hot ! 
See  how  the  deep  lines  meet  and  dare ! 
And  not  one  coward  soul  is  there. 

"Stand  for  your  rights  and  home,  I  say," 
Rang  down  the  long  deep  lines  of  gray ! 
"  Stand  for  the  Union,  stanch  and  true!" 
Rolled  down  the  waiting  lines  of  blue.  . 

Then  went  their  bronzen  hands  on  high, 
And  hard  lips  hurled  this  quick  reply: 
"God  helping  us,  we  stand,  we  stand 
For  Union,  home  and  sunny  land." 

Vain,  vain,  those  awful  volleys  sound, 
For  neither  gains  one  inch  of  ground, 
What  though  the  leaden  missile  dark. 
Has  gone  unerring  to  its  mark, 
And  all  that  stormy  field  is  red, 
And  covered  with  the  dual  dead. 
No  feature  of  the  fight  is  lost ! 
And  neither  counts  the  awful  cost. 

But  hold  !  that  gray  sea's  tidal  sweep, 
Now  gains  a  footing  on  the  steep. 


68  THE    MISSIONARY. 

With  teeth  hard  set,  and  nerves  of  steel, 
They  urge  the  fight,  the  blue  lines  reel, 
They  break,  they  fly,  they  whirl,  they  stand  ! 
They  meet  the  foeman,  hand  to  hand ! 
And  thick  and  fast  as  falling  snows, 
They  rein  the  volleys  and  the  blows. 

God's  mercy  on  each  blazing  wall, 
How  fast  the  'fighting  columns  fall, 
How  like  the  mighty  thunders  meet, 
The  volleys  and  the  howling  sleet. 
A  king,  a  king,  each  mighty  man, 
Who  dares  to  face  that  battle's  van, 
To  face  the  squadron,  charge  and  wheel, 
With  blades  ablaze  from  foeman's  steel. 

Ah,  that  such  lion  hearts  should  meet, 
Hearts  that  have  never  known  defeat. 
Advance,  recede,  and  break  for  break, 
They  crowd  the  fight,  they  give,  they  take, 
With  eyes  ablaze  and  bating  breath, 
They  face  the  lines  of  volleyed  death. 
And  meet  the  steel,  the  leaden  dart, 
With  no  accusing  word  at  heart. 

Now,  close  behind  the  lifted  blade, 

And  e'er  the  booming  cannonade, 

High-breasted  like  an  ocean  swell, 

Defiant  rings  the  rebel  yell. 

They  charge,  they  charge,  they  break  it  thro', 

They  sweep  the  mighty  lines  of  blue., 


THE    MISSIONARY.  69 

Like  dew  before  the  morning  sun, 
They  fly,  they  fly,  the  field  is  won. 

Ah  !  who  has  won,  and  who  has  lost  ? 
Let  reason  count  eacli  awful  cost. 
The  gray  may  hold  that  bloody  field, 
The  cunning  conquered  blue  have  wheeled 
In  shrewd  retreat  all  deftly  planned, 
With  Chattanooga  safe  in  hand, 
So  when  this  bloody  fight  is  done, 
Both,  both  have  lost  and  both  have  won. 

Take  roses  where  the  sweetest  grow, 
And  crown  the  dead,  no  more  a  foe. 
Let  Northern  mothers  come  with  tears, 
And  sow  them  on  these  Southern  biers. 
Let  Southern  sisters  dare  to  weep, 
Above  the  blue-braves,  quiet  sleep. 
The  while  God's  tenderness  shall  move, 
And  chain  them  in  the  bonds  of  love. 


MY  BROTHER'S  PICTURE. 

The  same  sweet  eyes  that  smiled  of  yore, 
Are  smiling  up  at  me  once  more. 
With  many  a  studied  thought  I  trace 
The  features  of  a  brother's  face; 
Indeed  !  the  same,  yet  changed  in  mold  — 
A  change  from  youth  to  manhood  bold ; 


70  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Yet  sacred  truth  ne'er  born  to  die, 
Gleams  sweetly  from  the  large  blue  eye. 

I  gaze  and  gaze  in  glad  surprise 
I  feast  the  mind,  I  feast  the  eyes, 
The  eyes  upon  the  picture  fair, 
The  mind  on  thoughts  that  revel  where 
Old  winds  of  winter  in  their  wrath, 
Piled  high,  the  snows  upon  our  path. 
While  side  by  side  we  laughed  to  tread 
The  downy  meadows  where  they  led. 

And  hark  !  the  .sleighs,  the  silver  bells  ! 
The  trolling  music  as  it  swells  ! 
And  by  the  pulsing  wind  is  tossed 
Amid  the  glitters  of  the  frost. 
How  sweet  they  touch  the  waiting  ear. 
Light,  lightly  now,  then  loud  and  clear, 
With  throbbing  hearts  they  gaily  tell 
A  tale  of  love,  each  tuneful  bell. 

Ring  on,  sweet  bells,  forever  more ! 
That  gladsome  song,  sing  o'er  and  o'er. 
While  gazing  here  on  brother's  face, 
I'm  with  you  there  in  every  place, 
And  friends  of  old  are  gathered  round, 
Their  voices  cross  your  cheery  sound, 
And  happy  songs  and  faces  bright 
Are  with  us  there  again  to-night. 

Long  years  have  flown  since  last  we  met, 
To  tread  the  snow-sown  parapet. 


ONE  YEAR  AGO.-P.  71. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  71 

The  downy  gardens  deep  to  plow, 
And  pile  above  each  jeweled  brow, 
The  creamy  foam  like  hills  of  sky 
Above  the  glazier's  dancing  eye, 
Or  bury  deep  as  brothers  would 
Each  other  in  the  ermin  flood. 

Yes  brother,  yes,  the  years  have  flown, 
Each  walks  in  duty's  ways  alone. 
I  tread  the  mountains  high  and  far 
And  hold  you  as  my  hopeful  star, 
While  you  in  valleys  far  away 
Still  have  me  with  you  there  to-day, 
And  what  is  distance  dim  and  blue, 
It  cannot  crowd  between  us  two. 


ONE  YEAK  AGO. 

One  year  ago  we  sat  together, 

'Mid  fields  of  clover,  all  blooming  sweet, 
You  fresh  and  fair,  as  summer  weather, 

And  I  adoring  at  your  feet. 

Beyond  a  reach  the  clouds  were  lifting, 
I  had  not  seen  their  shadows  rise, 

Away,  away,  my  soul  was  drifting, 
Lost  in  the  glory  of  thine  eyes. 

Trailed  on  the  green,  red  roses  blushing, 
A  pure  full  conscious  fragrance  flung, 


72  THE    MISSIONARY. 

While  all  around  seemed  hushing,  hushing, 
Chained  in  a  dream  this  stammering  tongue. 

Could  heart  be  filled  with  pure  devotion 
Then  mine,  indeed,  was  brimming  o'er, 

With  swell  on  swell,  like  lofty  ocean, 
That  lifts  and  lingers  along  the  shore. 

But  oh,  alas!  those  clouds  prevailing, 

A  nearer  circle  in  silence  drew, 
And  hour  by  hour  I  saw  thee  failing 

As  melts  the  pearl-born  summer's  dew. 

Till  O,  forever,  that  fatal  hour ! 

That  comes  to  any  with  ebon  tread," 
With  subtle  wooing  had  won  my  flower, 

And  left  me  lonely,  for  thou  wert  dead. 

And  still  I  lingered  above  thy  pillow, 

As  once  a  lover,  and  loth  to  go, 
But  change  had  woven  for  me  the  willow, 

And  touched  thy  bosom  with  hands  of  snow. 

And  now  from  over  thy  grave  I  gather 
The  crimson  clover  of  sweetest  stain, 

And  'mid  the  blessings  of  summer  weather, 
In  fancy  linger  with  thee  again. 

And  thou  art  all  to  me  as  ever, 
Your  little  fingers,  I  hold  them  so, 

And  pray  it  over,  that  naught  may  sever 
That  hope  had   welded  one  year  ago. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  73 

MY  MOTHER. 

You  speak  of  "saintly  women,"  sir, 

And  I  shall  not  oppose, 
For  there  is  one,  I  think  of  her, 

And  God  in  heaven  knows, 
That  she  is  pure  as  any  pearl, 

That  dreams  beside  the  sea, 
Or  trembles  where  the  fountains  curl 

Their  bows  of  chastity. 

The  modest  lily's  bosom  friend, 

And  fragile  too  as  they, 
Reticent  ways  that  never  lend 

Conventions  of  display. 
She  leans  above  the  fuchsia  now, 

As  one  intent  to  speak, 
And  pleasure  paints  the  shining  brow 

And  pillows  on  the  cheek. 

Yes,  mother  loves  the  shining  flowers, 

The  "sable  pencil"  too, 
And  she  can  draw  the  tangled  bowers, 

And  paint  the  diamond  dew, 
And  she  can  weave  the  color  lace 

Of  mountain,  vale  and  glen, 
Or  reproduce  the  form  and  face 

Of  well  remembered  men. 

The  pansies  knew  her  tender  hands, 
In  summers  long  ago; 


74  THE    MISSIONARY. 

And  from  its  bed  of  cultured  sands, 
She  taught  the  rose  to  grow; 

And  from  the  furrow's  finger-rift, 
That  crossed  the  dusky  sod, 

She  taught  a  thousand  plants  to  lift, 
Their  blooming  souls  to  God. 

Those  dewy  morns  that  came  and  went, 

When  mother  dear  was  young, 
Were  not  in  idle  comfort  spent, 

Nor  wayward  circles  flung. 
And  it  was  labor's  youthful  beau, 

That  made  the  royal  dare, 
With  honor's  jeweled  hands  to  sow, 

The  silver  in  her  hair. 

Did  ever  monarch  wear  a  crown 

More  royal  and  more  grand? 
Ah,  none  were  ever  handed  down, 

Not  by  the  Father's  hand. 
And  not  the  coff  of  pompous  king, 

In  sober  truth  compares 
With  that  divino-sent  offering  —  . 

The  crown  my  mother  wears. 

O  soul  of  love,  how  vast  and  deep, 

And  how  divinely  sweet; 
That  watched  the  hours  of  infant  sleep, 

And  trained  my  little  feet; 
That  led  me  with  the  hand  of  love, 

So  tender,  yet  so  strong, 


THE    MISSIONAEY.  75 

That  life  became, a  cooing  dove, 
And  time  an  endless  song. . 

My  mother,  these  are  sacred  words, 

And  nothing  reigns  above, 
The  luscious  songs  of  crooning  birds, 

Have  not  a  note  of  love. 
That  lists  the  lean  of  charmed  ear, 

Or  binds  us  to  another, 
Like  words  of  love  when  souls  revere 

And  gently  call  my  mother. 


JEALOUSY. 

O,  jealousy  ! 
Thou  sullen  watch-dog  of  the  human  heart , 

Ungainly  ghost  of  a  most  sick  offense; 
Through  jeweled  portals  of  the  soul  you  dart, 

Slay  truth  and  lap  the  blood  of  innocence; 
Dethroning  reason  in  your  putrid  ire, 
Kindling  kind  nature  with  malicious  fire. 

King  brute  of  brutal  passions  most  severe, 
Lank,  lurking  devil  of  most  devilish  mien, 

Pause  thou  and  gaze  each  victim's  falling  tear, 
And  the  wild  ravage  where  thy  strength  hath  been. 

A  wail  of  oceans,  in  their  sombre  times, 

But  fitful  meanings  for  thy  monster  crimes. 


76  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Glass-faced  and  grim  as  winters  stormy  skies, 
More  cold  to  -pity  than  the  hand  of  death ;j 

You  tear  the  glory  from  proud  human  eyes, 

You  ash  ripe  beauty  with  your  blighting  breath, 

You  forge  the  bosoms  where  our  well-springs  sleep 

And  mock  at  sorrow  while  your  victims  weep. 

Thou  thief  of  pleasure  and  thou  fiend  of  pain, 
Grim,  dire  assassin  of  most  holy  joys, 

I  would  yield  my  being,  but  to  see  thee  slain 
From  the  fold  that  fondles  thine  human  toys, 

And  I  hold  the  proffer  of  sacrifice 

But  just  to  nature  in  reason's  eyes. 

Then  tongues  that  prattle  might  prate  in  vain; 

The  voice  of  slander  could  wake  no  jar; 
Such  green-brake  berries  could  never  stain 

The  tranquil  features  of  life's  new  star, 
And  the  gall  that  tortures  a  hopeful  bliss. 
Could  never  mix  with  a  lover's  kiss. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

He  had  launched  his  boat  on  the  channels  of  fame  ! 

He  had*  swung  on  the  golden  bar; 
He  had  known  the  meed  of  an  honored  name 

Tho'  he  fell  as  a  falling  star; 


THE    MISSIONARY.  77 

And  the  luminous  rays  that  followed  his  track, 
Still  gleam  as  they  gleamed  of  yore,— 

Still  throwing  their  tints  of  memory  back 
To  the  days  of  his  lost  "  Lenore." 

Poor  plaintive  heart,  for  his  doom  was  sealed, 

And  the  sorrowing  tears  he  shed* 
Spoke  loud  of  the  worth  of  love  congealed 

In  that  anguishing  bosom's  bed; 
And  the  dark  plumed  raven  of  grief  and  pain, 

In  the  sight  of  his  mind  would  soar, 
And  crying,  shriek  her  cries  again, 

Lenore,   Lenore,  Lenore ! 

Then  frenzy  fell  o'er  poet's  dreams, 

And  conquer'd  his  mighty  muse, 
That  broke  be-times  from  its  bonds,  it  seems, 

To  glow  like  the  morning  dews. 
And  the  magical  flow  of  his  blazing  thought 

Will  glitter  forever  more, 
Through  the  luminous  lines  his  pen  has  wrought 

Of  the  "Bells"  and  his  "Lost  Lenore." 

O  tortured  heart,  that  had  loved  so  well, 

That  had  tuned  love's  golden  lyre  — 
That  had  felt  the  pulse  of  affection  swell, 

And  its  fount  of  love  leap  higher ; 
That  had  dreamed  and  drank  as  a  lover  dare 

At  the  cup  still  brimming  o'er, 
And  cried  the  name  to  the  nuns  of  air-~ 

Lenore,  Lenore,  Lenore ! 


78  THE    MISSIONARY. 

O  faint  the  scroll  of  a  jealous  world, 

And  weak  are  the  lies  of  men, 
Who  deign  to  steal  of  the  laurels  curled 

O'er  thy  heart  and  hand  and  pen  ; 
To  check  the  river  that  runs  of  truth 

Through  valleys  of  shining  ore, 
And  dye  the  lily  of  love  and  youth— 

Lenore,  Lenore,  Lenore ! 

'Tis  vain,  and  false  as  vain,  dear  Poe, 

The  truth  they  cannot  disguise; 
A  spirit-whisper  ' '  No,  oh  no ! " 

Comes  down  from  the  starry  skies, 
And  a  seraph  form  in  robes  of  white 

Leans  down  from  the  golden  shore, 
And  leads  you  over  the  fields  of  night  — 

Your  beautiful,  lost  Lenore. 


AT  SIOUX  FALLS. 

I  stood  by  the  side  of  a  wandering  stream. 

In  the  land  of  the  beautiful  west, 
And  I  saw  the  glow  of  a  sunset  beam 

Creep  over  the  water's  crest, 
As  down  the  river  the  sunlight  played, 

And  danced  o'er  the  rocky  wild ; 
To  the  opposite  bank  there  careless  strayt-d 

An  Indian  wife  and  child. 


AT  SIOUX  FALLS.— P.  78. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  79 

The  mother  was  dark  of  a  dusky  brown, 

And  her  long  dishevelled  hair 
In  masses  trailed  from  her  forehead  down 

O'er  a  brow  deep  ridged  with  care; 
They  strayed  to  the  brink  of  that  bubbling  tide, 

Then  silent  awhile  they  stood 
As  the  mother  gazed  on  the  water's  glide, 

And  then  on  the  silent  wood. 

She  knew  not  then  that  the  hated  form 

Of  a  pale-face  stood  so  near, 
She  only  dreamed  of  the  sunset  warm, 

And  the  days  of  elk  and  deer; 
Of  the  red  man's  chase,  through  the  leafy  wood. 

Of  the  smoke  of  the  wigwam  low 
And  the  light  canoe  that  scaled  the  flood 

In  pursuit  of  the  wounded  doe. 

While  thus  she  stood  with  a  dreamy  air, 

And  gazed  on  the  verdant  lands, 
That  angel  child,  so  sweet  and  fair, 

Knelt  down  to  the  golden  sands.  « 

It  gathered  the  pebbles  with  tiny  hand, 

And  then  with  a  child's  delight 
It  threw  them  far  on  the  gleaming  strand 

To  clamor  and  sink  from  sight. 

As  the  pebbles  broke  through  the  ether  tide, 
With  a  rhythmic  sound  all  clear, 

The  mother  turned  her  head  aside, 
As  tho'  she  were  pained  to  hear. 


80  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Then,  with  a  sigh,  she  quickly  turned 

Her  face  from  the  child  away, 
Ah,  well  I  know:  this  mind  discerned. 

What  that  Indian  wife  would  say. 

She  thought  of  the  days  when  a  warrior  bold, 

Had  strayed  by  that  self-same  tide, 
She  thought  of  the  place  where  his  love  was  told, 

Just,  just,  on  the  other  side; 
Yes,  just  across  on  the  other  shore, 

In  the  shade  of  that  mighty  tree; 
Her  eyes  were  turned  to  the  spot  once  more, 

When  lo !  they  fell  on  me. 

Her  dark  eye  lit  with  a  demon  light, 

Her  mien  grew  fierce  and  wild, 
Her  face  was  all  of  a  stormy  night 

As  she  quickly  grasped  the  child ; 
And  away,  away,  through  the  bending  brush 

That  child  and  mother  flew, 
And  I  saw  no  more  of  the  angry  flush 

That  painted  the  tortured  Sioux. 


THE  TEMPEST. 

Heard  ye  not  the  tempest  moan? 
Far  winds  murmur  monotone? 
And  the  hissing  splendors  thrown, 
From  the  mighty  hand  of  love  ? 


LORD  TENNYSON. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  81 

Heard  ye  not  the  blazing  line, 
Reach  and  kiss  the  mountain  pine  ? 
Was  it  from  the  hand  divine. 
To  the  monarch  of  the  grove? 

Lo !  the  stately  head  is  bowed, 
And  the  giant-winged  cloud 
Flaps  its  banners,  long  and  loud, 

Round  the  torn  and  bleeding  stem. 
Falling  to  a  whisper  low, 
Ling'ring  as  if  loth  to  go, 
Weeping  o'er  that  fatal  blow, 

Hark  !  the  chanted  requiem. 

Sleep,  O  sleep,  thou  forest  king. 
Fanned  no  more  by  tempest  wing, 
Lowly  where  the  blossoms  spring, 

And  the  chirping  crickets  call. 
Lowly,  'tis  the  monarch's  fate, 
With  the  meek  of  earth  to  mate, 
Brothers  of  one  common  state, 

Pride  must  surely  have  its  fall. 


TO  LORD  TENNYSON. 

"To  sleep,  to  sleep,"  far  o'er  the  deep, 
From  hands  divine  that  dare  to  sweep, 
lhe  deep  rich  chords  of  human  souls, 
And  lift  anew,  red  seas,  a  roll, 


82  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Replyal  to  each  deft  drawn  swing, 
With  music  grand  as  angels  bring 
When  vespers  call  — to  sleep,  to  eieep. 
Yea,  these  the  notes  that  wing  to  me, 
From  o'er  the  vast  blue  rolling  sea, 
To  sleep,  to  sleep  ! 

To  sleep,  to  sleep !  and  dost  thou  dream  ? 
Night  shall  not  drink  one  golden  beam, 
Of  that  true  light  that  like  the  sun, 
Moves  grandly  on  till  time  is  done; 
And  all  the  chords  thy  hands  have  given, 
Are  still  on  earth,  tho'  sweet  in  heaven, 
Beyond  the  night  whose  vigils  keep 
These  echoes  locked  — to  sleep,  to  sleep. 
No,  no,  great  heart,  this  shall  not  stay, 
One  gleam  of  thine  immortal  day, 
To  sleep,  to  sleep  ! 


CHRISTMAS. 

Ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand  -- 
With  accumulations  sweet, 

The  bells  in  tune, 

Ring  out  a  rune, 
Far  down  each  winding  street, 
And  kling,  klang,  kling  and  klang,  kliug,  kling. 

Each  silvery  note  — 

A  bird  afloat 


THE   MISSIONARY.  83 

On  doubly  silvered  wing, 

Till  all  the  air, 

Is  made  declare, 
The  truth  that  Christ  is  king, 
King,  king,  king,  king,  king; 

It  rides  the  air, 

And  everywhere  — 
The  blessed  Christ  is  king. 

Ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand, 
The  trumpet  horns  are  blown, 
And  far  along,  a  world  of  song, 

The  blessed  news  is  sown, 
With  toot,  toot,  toot  and  klang,  klirg,  kling, 

In  dual  tone  the  sounds  are  thrown, 
And  this  their  offering — 

To  wind  and  wave, 

And  starry  cave, — 
Too-ling,  too-ling,  too-ling,  kling,  kling, 

With  bell  and  horn, 

We  greet  the  morn 
That  gave  the  gracious  king, 
King,  king,  king,  too-ling,  king,  too-ling, 

Each  breaking  tone, 

Is  swift  to  own  — 
The  blessed  royal  king. 

Ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand, 
Glad  hearts  are  swelling  high, 
And  tongues  have  rang, 


84  THE    MISSIONARY. 

And  lips  have  sang, 
Their  anthems  to  the  sky, 
Till  o'er  the  distant  valley 

And  far  across  the  plain 
Their  happy  hallelujahs 

Return  to  them  again. 
Ring  on  sweet  bells  your  story  — 

Koling,  kolang,  koling, 
For  Christ  is  come  in  glory 

To  tell  us  he  is  king,  [king,  king, 

King,  king,  king,  too-ling,  king,   too-ling,  king, 
Yea,  Christ  has  come  in  glory  — 
The  blessed  royal  king. 


FLIRTATIONS. 

I  wrote  my  love  (?)  for  a  lock  of  her  hair, 
My  strange  love — truly  strange; 

Yet  loved  of  course,  beyond  compare. 

My  strange  love  answered  and  sent  the  hair, 

Like  a  golden  glance  of  a  glory  rare, 
Arranged  in  a  sweet  arrange. 

I  grabbed  the  gift,  as  a  glad  reward 

Were  ta'en  by  a  child  at  school, 
And  my  heart  beat  high  with  a  glad  concord 
Of  musical  praise  for  the  sweet  reward, 


FLIRTATIONS.-P.  84. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  86 

A  mutual  blend,  with  the  every  word 
From  the  lips  of  a  "love-sick  fool." 

I  kissed  the  treasure,  then  lightly  laid 

The  golden-  bow  on  my  breast, 
Then,  vowing  a  love  for  the  valiant  maid, 
The  tress,  where  many  another  had  laid, 
Was  hidden  away  in  the  hollow  shade 

That  hungered  beneath  my  vest. 

The  splendor  hid,  I  laughing  said, 

'Tis  only  one  of  a  score, 
That  lived  in  glory  but  now  are  dead, 
'Twill  soon  be  lost  with  the  rest  I  said 
This  golden  curl  from  a  sunny  head, 

A  trinket,  and  nothing  more. 


AN  IMMOKTAL. 
There  was  a  time  in  ages  gone 
When  reason's  rich  and  starry  dawn 
Lay  helpless  in  the  lap  of  sin. 
When  dotard-devils  dared  to  win, 
And  shaped  their  dam'd  and  darkened  ways 
In  slimy  trails  athwart  the  blaze 
Of  that  grand  star  that  lends  an  eye, 
To  glitter  from  love's  royal  sky. 

There  was  a  time  when  kings  could  dare 
Lift  high  their  jeweled  hands  in  air, 


86  THE    MISSIONARY. 

And  to  the  brave  cry  —  Pompey,  down  ! 
Surveillance  sir,  to  king  and  crown  ! 
And  tower'ing  manhood  falling  prone, 
Paid  tribute  to  the  pompous  throne, 
And  like  the  whining  cur  new  beat 
Crept  up  and  kissed  the  monarch's  feet. 

There  was  a  time  when  labor  lay 
A  countless  mass  of  miry  clay, 
And  noble  deeds  like  trodden  flowers, 
Gave  footing  for  the  foppish  powers. 
When  lords  alone  in  vicious  sway, 
Dared  trump  the  words  fraternity, 
And  vulture  dread  and  vengeance  stood 
Defiant  of  true  brotherhood. 

But  lo,  where  crept  the  deepest  gloom, 
There  blossoms  bright  above  the  tomb, 
Of  buried  sin  and  deeds  of  hell, 
A  glorious  flower,  an  "immortal," 
As  sweet  and  fresh  as  ever  stood 
In  Eden's  gardened  brotherhood 
Of  passion's  stain,  and  status  given 
To  weave  amid  the  winds  of  heaven. 

Torn  from  the  fields  of  yonder  light, 
Borne  earthward  by  that  plumed  knight, 
J.  Rathbone  —  (Yea,  with  reverence  true, 
We  turn  our  thankful  hearts  to  you.) 
That  mediator  chose  of  God 


THE    MISSIONARY.  87 

To  plant  our  trouble's  leaden  sod, 
And  garland  all  the  human  race. 

True  as  the  vine  that  sturdy  grows, 
To  lift  the  new-born  tendril  rose, 
This  vine  of  love  will  lift  and  trace, 
And  crown  anew  the  care-worn  face, 
Till  like  the  broad  expanse  of  sea 
The  soul-winged  waves  of  equity 
Shall  lift  and  sway  and  sweetly  dart 
Their  joys  electric  to  the  heart. 

Then  forward,  forward,  to  the  fight, 
The  battle  on,  each  lofty  knight 
Does  double  effort  all  for  good, 
And  proves  the  wealth  of  knightly  blood; 
And  as  our  dashing  armies  meet 
Tread  Satan's  hosts,  with  fiery  feet, 
The  while  our  motto  ever  be 
J.  Rathbone  and  humanity. 


A  BLESSED  SURRENDER 

I  see  the  great,  strong  soldier  stand 
Confessing  Christ,  with  lifted  hand, 
His  bronzen  cheek  a  brighter  glow, 
As,  fanned  by  some  diviner  throe, 
Sent  skyward  from  a  heart  of  steel. 
A  heart  too  proud,  too  proud,  to  fee] 


88  THE    MISSIONARY. 

A  mastery  in  aught  that  fell 
Amid  the  flaming  charge  —  the  hell 
That  spake" in  tongues  of  molten  fire, 
And  circled  in  its  deadly  ire, 
The  bravest  of  the  brave  and  true, 
The  mighty  royal  ranks  of  blue. 

And  now,  with  all  his  battles  done, 
Life  leaning  toward  the  setting  sun, 
He  who  has  bled  in  battles  wild, 
Comes  as  a  meek  and  trusting  child, 
Submissive  to  the  Master's  call, 
(The  great,  grand  Brigadier  of  all) 
And,  laying  all  his  armor  past, 
Says  proudly,  "  O,  at  last,  at  last ! 
My  labors  done,  my  country  free, 
Lord,  I  surrender  unto  Thee." 


CONSOLATION. 

Shed  not  a  tear,  there  is  weakness  in  weeping, 
Those  that  are  gone  are  not  dead,  only  sleeping. 
Let  not  a  chill,  o'er  thy  lonely  heart  creeping, 

Waver  its  pulse  to  the  winds  of  despair. 
Bow  with  a  smile  to  the  wants  of  creation, 
Flowers  newly  bloom  o'er  the  breasts  of  a  nation, 
Spirits  move  upward,  from  station  to  station, 

Look  for  thy  loved  on  the  loftier  stair. 


HOME.— P.  89. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  89 

Chill  are  the  hours,  ere  the  morn's  rosy  breaking, 
Dark  are  the  dews,  ere  the  light's  tender  taking. 
Hope,  like  a  dove  from  a  drear  bondage  breaking, 

Wings  its  glad  flight  to  the  Edens  of  bliss. 
Pale  are  the  pearls  of  a  life-shadowed  even, 
Cold  are  the  rays  of  a  soul-hungered  heaven, 
Yet,  doubly  sweet,  when  the  clouds  all  are  riven, 

Bathing  the  HDS  with  God's  merciful  kiss. 

Live  for  the  right,  in  all  duty  prevailing, 

Heed  not  the  shadows  that  round  thee  are  sailing, 

Life  hath  no  pleasure  to  borrow  from  wailing, 

Hope  hath  no  halo,  in  haunts  of  despair. 
Life  is  too  brief,  all  too  brief  for  repining, 
Rose  unto  rose,  be  its  moments  reclining, 
Love,  all  the  loved  and  the  lovely  entwining, 

Sweet  to  the  home  of  their  birth  must  repair. 


HOME. 

That  house  wherein  no  mother's  voice  is  heard, 
No  precious  lisp  of  childhood's  rambling  tongue, 

No  joyous  trill  from  flute-throat  fluttering  bird, 
Nor  gracious  swell  from  grand  old  organ  flung, 
Is  not  a  home. 

E'en  tho'  its  walls  through  deep-dyed  laces  smile, 
And  gauzy  curtains,  fancy-flowered  with  gold, 


90  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Fantastic  shades  of  grandeur  drop  the  while, 
As  looping  low  fold  lingers  upon  fold, 
Neath  archen  dome. 

O  children  !  ye  yet  sweeter  than  the  birds, 

What  tongue  can  tell  the  depth  that  we  appraise? 

What  picturing  pen  could  paint  the  glorious  words, 
That  one  may  read  from  thine  illuming  eyesg? 
Ah,  there  is  none. 

The  heart  alone  in  grateful  silence  feels 
The  perfect  truth,  the  magnitude  of  love, 

Which  no  proud  lip  to  mortal  dream  reveals, 
Save  through  the  voice  of  him  who  rules  above, 
The  only  One. 

What  tho'  the  rites  of  dim,  far-distant  lore 

Lie,  volumes  deep,  gilt-tinged  and  floral  pages, 

And  changing  lights  flash  o'er  the  sandal  floor, 
From  chandeliers  that  wear  the  mark  of  ages, 
'Tis  cold  and  bare. 

Not  painted  glass  nor  fossils  from  afar, 
Not  glitters  lent,  from  spangles  of  the  sea, 

Can  fill  the  void  or  swell  themselves  to  par 
With  those  grand  idols  of  mortality, — 
Love  is  not  there. 


LIFE'S  LITTLE  DAY. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  91 


LIFE'S  LITTLE  DAY. 

Life's  little  day,  O  how  briefly  it  lingers, 

Crowned  with  its  darkness  and  falling  of  tears, 

Few  sown,  the  sun.  spots  by  fancy's  fair  fingers, 
O'er  the  deep  hollow  cognomen  of  years. 

Yet  there  is  that,  that  is  ever  persuading, 
Moving  to  deeds  that  are  truly  divine, 

So  like  a  great  royal  bloom  that  is  fading 
Sweet  in  its  death  as  the  days  of  its  prime. 

Dress  the  sweet  lips  with  the  nectars  that  hover 
Rich  in  the  breath  of  the  tide-winds  of  love; 

Lay  the  soft  hand  where  the  heart-throbs  may  cover 
Deeds  duly  meet  for  that  dear  home  above. 

Then  be  the  day  like  the  dart  of  a  story, 

Strange  and  unlearned  in  the  quick  of  its  sweet, 

Still  like  a  glance  of  the  sun's  burning  glory 

Own  a  bright  fringe  where  the  cloud  armies  meet. 


SISTER  SARAH. 

Full  many  a  dark  and  cloudy  sky, 
Has  dawned  above  us,  deary, 

And  many  a  day  of  hope  gone  by, 
Gallanting  light  and  cheery; 


92  THE    MISSION  ART. 

And  many  a  bright  and  cheering  scene, 
Has  touched  our  hearts  with  flora, 

And  many  a  sorrow  urged  between 
The  leaves  of  light  and  glory. 

A  road  without  a  turn  is  long, 

And  some  are  turning  ever, 
And  love  may  weave  a  jolly  song 

That  sorrow  dares  to  sever, 
And  still  the  mossy  lanes  of  time 

Will  bare  the  echoes  over, 
That  lifted  in  the  early  prime, 

Above  the  fields  of  clover. 

And  so,  to-night  from  alleys  grand, 

And  beechen  copse  a-growing, 
I  reach  and  take  a  tender  hand, 

A  tender  youth  bestowing, 
And  lead  adown  the  olden  ways, 

That  hemmed  among  the  bowers, 
And  danced  the  light  of  other  days 

Adown  the  fields  of  flowers. 

And  you  were  there  at  every  move, 

To  test  the  subtle  weather, 
And  wind  the  heart  with  wreaths  of  love, 

We  always  were  together. 
And  hot  or  cold,  in  shade  or  shine, 

The  gods  were  still  forgiving, 
And  thine  was  mine  and  mine  .was  thine, 

And  life  was  worth  the  living. 


SISTER  SARAH. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  93 

We  romped  the  forest  sweet  and  wild, 

My  little  form  was  airy, 
And  you  were  half  a  slender  child, 

And  half  a  summer  fairy. 
And  when  you  sang  your  thrilling  song 

Across  the  windy  ocean, 
I  saw  the  little  linnets  throng 

Their  proffers  of  devotion. 

We  trod  the  morning's  dewy  sweet, 

And  on  the  shady  mire 
We  trailed  the  prints  of  little  feet, 

With  hearts  and  souls  afire. 
Or  danced  the  butterfly  adown 

The  reach  of  shining  hours, 
And  watched  the  buzzing  little  brown 

Steal  pollen  from  the  flowers. 

And  still  the  moments  sped  us  by, 

With  light  and  shade  a-quiver, 
We  watched  their  winged  vessels  fly 

The  great  eternal  river, 
And  still  their  tiny  freights  were  due, 

And  some  were  heavy  laden, 
And  half  for  me  and  half  for  you, 

A  proud  and  handsome  maiden. 

They  call  me  "  mister"  now,  at  times, 
*    And  thus  I  am  a  straying, 
Betwixt  the  grace  of  harvest  primes 
And  hours  of  mellow  Maying, 


94  THE    MISSION'ART. 

And  here  and  there  a  silver  thread, 
A  shrewdness  may  discover, 

And  time  may  dye  the  raven  head, 
But  cannot  change  the  lover. 

And  you— well,  you  are  "Misses  Green," 

It  beats  the  devil !  Sarah, 
And  chances  were  as  good,  I  ween, 

That  they  have  styled  you  "Ara;" 
And  yet,  it  matters  little,  dear, 

The  cognomen  as  given, 
If  we  shall  find  the  waters  here 

That  wander  into  heaven. 

And  so. I  take  your  bronzed  hand, 

As  in  the  days  gone  over, 
And  lead  you  o'er  the  shining  sands, 

And  through  the  fields  of  clover, 
And  past  the  mile-posts  of  the  hill, 

That  griefs  may  dare  to  vary, 
The  while  that  I  am  Charlie,  still, 

And  you  are  sister  Sarah. 


TO  ELLA  WHEELEK  WILCOX. 

You  dipped  your  pen  in  passion  dew, 
And  drew  the  lines  so  sweet  and  true, 
That  half  a  world  with  beamers  wide 
Stood  wondering  and  electrified. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  95 

Each  subtle  word,  like  break  of  day, 
That  shoots  its  airy  lights  astray, 
Went  swift  and  sure,  a  shining  dart, 
And  lodged  across  some  beating  heart; 
Or  lanced  anew  some  hidden  well, 
That  hurled  its  currents  high  to  tell, 
In  crimson  jet  or  pearly  play, 
How  deep  the  wells  of  passion  lay. 
Then  silvery  age  and  sunny  youth, 
Sought  for  this  diamonding  of  truth, 
And  starry  eyes  with  hurried  glance, 
Pushed  forth  to  meet  its  sweet  expanse 
While  eager  waiting  eyes  of  age 
Went  slower  down  the  glowing  page, 
And  lingered  till  the  sight  was  dim 
And  blurred  above  its  golden  brim. 
And  "it  were  good  —  O  grand  and  good," 
Came  from  glad  lips  of  womanhood; 
And  "it  were  worth  a  shining  ten," 
Came  proudly  from  the  lips  of  men. 
And  so  the  critic,  knowing  thing, 
Reached  forth  to  clip  its  golden  wing, 
But  ah,  the  prince,  (intent  to  teach) 
The  bird  had  flown  beyond  his  reach. 


96  THE    MISSIONARY. 


THE  NEW  YEAR 

Let  the  sorrowful  past  be  past, 

Let  the  future  break  blooming  and  gay, 
Let  the  sunlight  of  joy  gather  fast, 

To  shine  o'er  life's  troublesome  way. 
Let  the  tears  of  the  widow  be  dried, 

Warm  the  heart  of  the  orphan  with  cheer, 
Make  merry  whatever  betide, 

And  welcome  the  happy  new  year. 

Go  ye  down  to  the  dungeons  of  woe, 

Go  ye  forth  to  the  homes  of  despair, 
Bear  ye  comfort  wherever  you  go 

And  your  joys  with  the  comfortless  share, 
Let  the  needy  have  taste  of  your  store, 

Wash  the  fallen  with  pity's  own  tear, 
Bow  before  thy  loved  Lord  and  adore, 

And  welcome  the  happy  new  year. 

Take  the  angel  of  love  by  the  hand, 

And  welcome  her  courteous  train, 
A  balm  for  life's  ills;  she  will  stand 

'Twixt  patients  and  demons  of  pain, 
Gem  portal  of  doom  with  a  dew 

That  falleth  like  pity's  soft  tear. 
Sing  anthems  of  glory  anew, 

And  welcome  the  happy  new  year. 

Leave  no  couch-ridden  patient  alone 
To  battle  life's  sorrows  uncared, 


THE  NEW  YEAR.-P 


THE    MISSIONARY.  97 

No  seeds  of  pure  kindness  unsown, 

Nor  boon  of  affliction  impaired  ; 
Take  the  pitiless  poor  by  the  hand, 

Dry  cheeks  from  the  touch  of  a  tear. 
Draw  around  an  affectionate  band 

And  welcome  the  happy  new  year. 

Sow  pleasures  wherever  you  go, 

*A  balm  of  sweet  roses  in  air, 
Unchained  in  its  beautiful  flow, 
•     That  flow  being  everywhere  ; 
The  sweetness  it  makes  never  ends, 

But  on  to  the  heart  with  a  cheer 
That  comes  like  the  voice  of  a  friend 

To  welcome  the  happy  new  year. 

Let  hope  sing  her  anthems  of  love, 

Enshrined  in  the  heart's  glad  abode, 
Her  fountains  gush  proudly  above, 

The  joys  that  the  past  has  bestowed; 
O  angels  of  mercy  abound 

With  songs  that  are  sweet  and  of  cheer, 
With  songs  that  are  glad  and  profound, 

To  usher  the  happy  new  year. 


THE    MISSIONARY. 


THE  MINER'S  GRATE. 

In  a  lone  defile  of  the  mountain  pass, 
Where  never  an  hour  of  the  day  the  sun, 
Kneels  down  to  drink  of  the  tides  that  run 
Like  silvery  threads  to  a  dark  morass, 
They  had  fashioned  a  grave  so  long  ago, 
That  even  the  oldest  did  not  know.       • 
Who  planned  the  chalice  or  piled  the  stone, 
And  left  the  sleeper  alone,  alone.  4 

Here  tardy  morning  with  heavy  sighs, 
Stole  slowly  downward  with  weeping  eyes, 
And  night  with  tenderest  hush  of  tread, 
Threw  early  mantle  around  the  dead; 
And  here  the  trickle  of  tiny  stream, 
And  coo  of  turtle  and  sands  a-gleam, 
And  wave  of  myrtle  and  winds  a-moan, 
Made  murmur  ever,  alone,  alone. 

And  where  the  mother  that  waited  long, 
The  hunted  treasure,  the  heart  of  song, 
And  where  the  father  with  eyes  of  tears, 
A-lean  and  listen  for  years  and  years ; 
And  where  the  lover  that  stole  a-part, 
To  hide  the  sorrow,  that  crushed  her  heart, 
The  hollow  murmur  the  winds  have  sown, 
Makes  answer  ever,  alone,  alone. 


KIND  SISTERS. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  99 


KIND  SISTERS. 

MRS.    OTTO  KAUPP.        MRS.    FRANK  COLE. 

What  words  so  sweet  that  they  may  tell, 
The  tenderness  that  dares  to  dwell 

In  those  dear  hearts? 

Like  snow-birds  dressed  in  robes  of  white, 
They  throw  their  darts  of  hope  arid  light, 

And  grief  departs. 

Some  tale  is  told  of  wrong  or  woe, 
And  do  they  hesitate  to  go? 

I  answer  plain, 

Like  angels  sweet  from  God's  deep  sky, 
On  willing  feet  they  fairly  fly, 

To  silence  pain. 

It  matters  not  the  weight  of  creed, 
If  that  a  saddened  soul  shall  bleed 

In  deep  distress. 

With  lifted  hands  in  haste  they  move, 
To  labor  in  the  rights  of  love 

And  righteousness. 

Great  God  !  from  lowly  bended  knees, 
We  thank  thee  for  such  gifts  as  these, 

And  weeping  say — 
When  gathered  at  the  Master's  feet, 
E'en  heaven's  self  will  be  more  sweet, 

With  such  as  they. 


100  THE    MISSIONARY. 

HO !  LAND  OF  THE  WEST. 

Ho  !  land  of  the  bounteous  west, 

Of  prairies  wide  and  wild, 
Thy  rambling  winds,  once  sweetly  dressed 

The  brow  of  a  laughing  child. 

Blue-linked  are  thy  lakelets  spread, 
All  bordered  with  sands  of  gold, 

And  still  more  blue  the  heaven's  o'er  head, 
Where  gossamere  glories  fold. 

Ho !  land  of  the  glorious  west, 

No  other  land  so  fair; 
An  emerald  charm  on  nature's  breast, 

Luring  and  lingering  there. 

Land  where  the  wild  rose  sways, 

A  glory  to  childhood's  eyes; 
Seemingly  fair  as  a  meteor's  blaze 

When  wandering  down  the  skies. 

Land  of  my  childhood's  home  — 

The  dearest  still  and  best, 
Hand  in  hand  with  love  to  roam 

We  trained  on  thy  velvet  breast. 

Soft,  soft  are  thy  skies,  O  land, 

Thy  sunbeams  doubly  bright, 
And  the  friendly  clasp  of  many  a  hand 

Still  lingers  with  me  to-night. 


HO!  LAND  OF  THE  WEST.-P.  100. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  101 

Dear  land,  I  have  wandered  away, 

From  thy  garland  of  glories  rare, 
Thy  bounteous  morn,  thy  brighter  day 

And  the  kiss  of  thy  amber  air. 

I  have  drank  of  the  change  of  clime, 

I  have  salied  the  darksome  sea 
But,  land  of  my  heart !  thou  art  ever  sublime, 

And  dearest  of  all  to  me. 


SLEEPING. 

Lay  him  gently  down  to  rest, 

Never  more 
Will  a  torture  haunt  his  breast, 

Life  is  o'er. 
Place  above  his  manly  form, 

Flower  and  leaf, 

• 

Wet  with  teardrops  falling  warm, 

Tears  of  grief. 
Mark  the  spot  with  tender  care, 

And  the  cross, 
Let  it  stand  a  guardian  there 

Of  our  loss. 
Let  the  stranger  lightly  tread, 

Here  profound 
Rests  the  pure  and  noble  dead, 

Hallowed  ground. 


102  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Let  the  living  bear  in  trust, 

Neath  this  sod, 
Lies  the  body's  humble  dust, 

Not  the  spirit  gone  to  God. 


SYMPATHY. 

Dear  dove,  I  hear  thy  plaintive  coo, 
And  fiercely,  fondly  fly  to  you. 
Old  love  now  lit  with  new-found  zeal, 
Deep  quivers  through  my  heart-strings  steal, 
And  once  again,  just  as  of  yore, 
I  love  thee,  claim  thee,  and  adore. 

O,  how  could  you  through  all  these  years, 
Choke  that  incessant  rise  of  tears  ? 
How  hide  those  signs  of  silent  truth, 
That  burned  upon  thy  brow  in  youth '{ 
How  silent  sit  in  grief  each  day, 
And  let  me  wander  thus  away  ? 

How  much  of  joy  and  happy  hours, 

We  might  have  spent  mid  birds  and  flowers, 

Is  swept  with  time's  incessant  flow, 

Away,  because  you  lingered  so. 

For  shame !  indeed,  we  can't  recall 

Those  moments  lost  at  all,  at  all. 

Yet,  loved  one,  thou  shouldst  not  complain, 
Thy  Charlie  comes  to  thee  again; 


THE    MISSIONARY.  103 

So  darling,  thou  so  long  distressed. 
Smile  up  again  for  thou  art  blessed. 
Aye,  blessed,  for  now  he  loves  thee  more 
Than  ever  mortal  dared  before. 

O,  angel  thou !  in  future  years, 
Strive  not  to  hide  love's  tell-tale  tears. 
Nay  !  let  them  flow,—  nor  deem  it  weak, 
I'd  gladly  wipe  them  from  thy  cheek, 
Nor  deem  those  scarlet  floods  arise, 
Less  lovely  than  the  sunset  skies. 

Now  darling,  take  this  kind  advice, 
Thou  bright-plumed  bird  of  paradise, 
O  grieve  again  no  more,  no  more, 
O'er  mournful  past  of  "  mystic  lore," 
Nay,  choke  thy  conscience  ne'er  again 
With  bitter  longing's  lonesome  pain. 

Nay,  never  more  again  allow 

A  blush  of  love  that  tints  thy  brow 

To  pale  unseen,  or  in  disguise 

To  hide  from  thy  dear  Charlie's  eyes; 

You've  but  to  spread  your  lavish  charms, 

And  fold  him  in  your  snowy  arms. 


104  THE    MISSIONARY. 


A  CALIFOKNIA  FOUETH. 

The  night  had  dropped  her  dewy  wings  in  slumber 
ing  silence  down, 

And  pulsing  zephyrs  calmly  kissed  the  corners  of 
the  town, 

When  lo !  along  the  corridors  of  time-tides  uncon 
trolled, 

A  tidal  rush  of  melodies,  ^Eolean  wavelets,  rolled. 

While  yet  the  sweet  vibrations  hang  and  tremble  on 

the  air, 
A  lurid  bonfire  paints  the  sky  with  crimson-tinted 

glare, 
And  troubled  drums  and  loud  hurrahs  and  anvil 

clash  and  roar, 
Are  echoed  with  the  ocean  waves  that  break  along 

the  shore. 

Hurrah,  hurrah,  for  liberty  !  for  glory  and  for  state  ! 
And  freedom  breathes  her  balmy  breath  up  through 

the  "golden  gate," 
While  cannon  toss  their  thunder  notes  across  the 

ether  tide, 
To  roll  away  along  the  bay  and  up  the  mountain  side. 

Day  breaks,  and  waves  her  gilded  plume  out  o'er 
the  world  afar. 

And  brushes  from  the  ether  dome  the  fading  morn 
ing  star. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  105 

Light  zephyrs  wave  the  spangled  grass  and  diadems 

a  crown, 
Their  slender  stems  in  silence  slip  in  silver  trickles 

down. 

I  see  the  starry  flag  unfurl  above  each  gilded  spire, 
I  hear  the  martial  music  roll  its  echoes  higher,  higher ! 
And  freedom ,  echoes  freedom,  across  the  land  of  gold, 
By  wayward  notes  of  music  in  double  answers  told. 

O  land  of  pride  and  pleasure,  beside  the  rolling  sea, 
May  freedom,  like  these  opal  waves,  forever  roll  to 

thee, 

And  all  thy  pearly  borders,  the  waters  washing 
Be  freedom's  everlasting  goal— a  nation's  proud 

delight. 


MOONLIGHT. 

When  vesper  bells  are  chiming  low, 

And  dimpled  daisies  blooming, 
And  night  comes  stealing  soft  and  slow, 

To  fling  around  its  glooming; 
I  love  to  wander  in  the  groves, 

And  pluck  the  dewy  flowers, 
Or  trace  the  streamlet  where  it  roves 

Through  wavy  woodland  bowers. 

Or  when  the  moonbeam  sweet  and  fair, 
Its  floods  of  glory  throwing, 


106  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Steps  lightly  on  the  maiden-hair, 

In  silken  tresses  flowing ; 
Or  trips  with  feet  of  deeper  light, 

Upon  the  placid  waters 
I  love  to  linger  in  the  night 

With  Deacon  Jones'  daughters. 

And  when  the  moon  has  touched  the  hill, 

And  from  the  sight  is  darting, 
And  dear  Miss  Jones  turns  up  her  bill, 

For  kisses  e'er  the  parting ; 
I  love  to  have  the  moon  go  slow  — 

To  linger  in  its  travel, 
Until  the  kisses  cease  to  flow, 

And  I  am  scratching  gravel. 


THE  SWEETEST  GIFT. 

By  the  gracious  hand  of  woman,  was  the  banner 

given  thee, 
From  the  gracious  heart  of  woman  emulation  of 

her  love, 
Pure  in  perfect  sense  of  splendor,  golden  symbol  of 

the  free ! 

Kissed  in  modesty  of  purpose  and  the  image  of 
the  dove. 

From  the  garden  of  her  feelings  and  the  glories  of 
her  mind, 


GOOD-B^E.-P.  107. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  107 

She  has  garnered  all  the  grandeur  that  discern 
ment  well  may  hold, 

Woven  'mid  a  woof  of  tinsel,  all  the  splendors  of 
her  kind, 

And  has  given  thee  the  record  on  an  ample  page 
of  gold. 

Drifting  with  the  breath  of  morning,  by  the  noon 
tide  zephyrs  fann'd, 
On  the  silken  air  of  evening  light  those  banner 

spangles  shift, 
O,  the  honor  of  receiving  from  a  woman's  blessed 

hand, 

For  the  sweetest  gift  of  giving  is  a  woman's  gra 
cious  gift. 


GOOD-BY. 

And  must  we  say  good-by,  good-by, 
With  touch  of  hand  and  dewy  eye, 
And  heart-throb  heaving  hot  and  high. 
Alas,  alas !  those  sad,  low  words, 
So  like  the  plaintive  notes  of  birds 
Storm-tossed  amid  the  winds  that  move> 
And  hungered  for  the  bread  of  love. 
We  come  to  thee  with  hearts  a-swell 
With  that  our  lips  can  never  tell, 
In  silence  hold  your  hand  in  ours, 


108  THE    MISSIONARY. 

As  one  would  hold  love's  dying  flowers. 
And  searching  through  our  tears  we  trace 
Each  grand  regret  that  paints  the  face, 
And  lifts  the  broad  heart  high  and  free 
In  throbs  of  soul-felt  sympathy. 
And  mirthless,  meek  attempts  of  cheers, 
That  mingled  with  our  hopeless  tears 
Some  crystal  dews,  divine  distilled 
From  heart  of  thine,  so  overfilled 
With  God's  great  gushing  tenderness, 
That  bowed  above  our  deep  distress, 
You  lift  love's  livid  lips  and  cry  — 
God  help  us  all !  good-by,  good-by ! 


I  GO  TO-MOEROW. 

TO  MISS  CONRAD. 

"I  go  to-morrow,"  this  you  said, 
With  steady  eyes  and  lifted  head, 
And  as  I  viewed  you  standing  there, 
A  feeling,  something  of  despair, 
Shot  homeward  like  an  arrow  dart 
And  lodged  across  my  beating  heart. 

Strange  coincident  !  we've  rarely  met, 
I  hardly  dare  to  know  you  yet, 
And  yet  (excuse  my  weak  defense) 
I  feel  to  grant  you  confidence ; 


THE    MISSIONARY..  109 

For  in  those  eyes'  deep  lakes  I  see 
A  glance  of  great  soul-sympathy. 

A  word,  you  took  my  heart  by  storm, 
And  led  me  down  the  valleys  warm 
Past  evergreens  and  shining  bays, 
And  brooklets  mouthing  sweet  with  praise, 
A  hand- reach  of  the  "  Golden  Stair," 
You  led  me  —  and  you  left  me  there. 

And  now  to-morrow  you  must  go, 

Ah,  sad  that  I  have  known  you  so  ; 

To  suffer  now  that  silent  pain 

That  comes  with  friendship's  parted  chain, 

And  still  these  hard  lips  break  apart  — 

God  bless  thee  !  wheresoe'er  thou  art. 

Ah,  that  to-morrow  !  friends  will  say-- 
To-morrow  is  a  speedy  day, 
One  little  moon,  ah,  sad  'tis  so, 
One  little  moon  and  you  will  go. 
Ah,  could  I  change  time's  dial-face, 
I'd  steal  to-morrow  from  its  place. 

Yet  such  is  life,  a  fleeting  breath, 
A  sunbeam  on  the  brow  of  death, 
A  spangle  on  time's  borders  sown, 
'Twixt  that  we  know  and  the  unknown, 
O  how  we  miss  life's  truant  good, 
Your  going  makes  this  understood. 


110  THE    MISSIONARY. 

You  may  not  grieve,  nor  feel  the  loss, 
The  gold  is  yours  — ours  is  the  dross, 
That  dross  of  time  that  seems  to  tend 
The  advent  of  our  loss  — a  friend  — 
And  here  a  double  loss  betide, 
Thou  wert  to  us  a  friend  and  guide. 


FKIENDS  IN  POESY. 

We  stand  in  the  doorway  of  doubt; 

Hark  !  the  whirlwind  of  time  sweeps  by  — 
Half  frightened  we  gaze  on  the  mystical  out, 
The  shadows  and  sunshine  all  scattered  about, 

Over-hung  by  the  blue-vaulted  sky. 

Shall  we  make  an  advance  to  the  world, 
That  shall  shatter  the  clouds  as  they  fly? 

Or  sit  with  our  flags  calmly  furled, 

Seeing  all  that  is  beautiful  hurled 
With  the  tempest,  and  fear  to  reply? 

Lend  an  arm  to  the  poets  of  old, 

Seize  the  past  by  its  shadowy  hand, 
Let  our  challenges  ring  till  the  city  of  gold, 
Echoes  back  the   sweet  songs  that  our  forefathers 
told, 

As  around  the  bright  altar  we  stand. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  Ill 


DOES    HE? 

Does  the  grasshopper  sing  that  same  old  song? 

Does  he  cling  just  as  close  to  the  vine? 
Does  he  gather  his  friends  in  a  magical  throng, 

More  ravenous  far  than  swine? 

Does  he  sap  the  shoots  of  the  emerald  wheat 
That  tower  o'er  the  verdant  slope? 

Does  he  cling  as  ever,  a  pure  dead-beat, 
To  feed  on  the  flowers  of  hope  ? 

Does  he  thrill  the  air  with  his  breezy  wings? 

Does  he  laugh  on  the  odorous  wind, 
While  his  neighbor's  wife  sits  by  and  sings 

Of  the  ruin  that's  left  behind? 

And  after  all  is  the  bug  to  blame? 

His  morals  are  dreadfully  low ; 
But  other  people  have  done  the  same 

And  never  been  asked  to  go. 

They  jumped  the  bounty  in  sixty-three, 

And  clambered  the  garden  wall, 
And  now  they  circle  the  country  free, 

The  hopper  must  shoulder  all. 

To  jump  the  bounty  and  jump  a  claim, 

Is  glory  and  heaps  of  fun, 
But  if  a  hopper  shall  do  the  same 

Why  he !  he's  a  "son  of  a  gun." 


THE    MISSIONARY.  112 


MISFORTUNE. 

O  fortune  is  fickle  and  friends  they  are  few, 
When  once  you  have  nothing  to  pay, 

Your  neighbors  will  cut  you  and  bid  you  adieu, 
And  pass  from  your  presence  away. 

It  matters  but  little  the  cause  of  your  fall, 

Misfortune  is  counted  a  crime, 
You  ask  for  a  twenty,  they  say  "  you  have  gall," 

And  falter  at  giving  a  dime. 

You  visit  their  places — your  clothes  they  are  poor, 

Your  face  is  all  furrows  and  tan  — 
They'll  question  your  mission  outside  of  the  door 

Nor  ask  you  come  in,  like  a  man. 

They  fail  to  remember  the  days  that  are  gone, 
When  life  held  its  measures  of  sweet, 

Before  the  dark  shadows  crept  over  the  dawn, 
And  scattered  the  thorns  for  your  feet. 

Through  fields  of  blown  roses  in  summers  gone  by, 

Ah,  they  were  your  lovers  of  old, 
But  shameful  misfortune  made  reason  to  fly 

And  hide  in  its  coffin  of  gold. 


GLOIUOUS.-P.  113. 


THE    MISSIONARY. 


GLORIOUS. 

There's  a  glorious  beam  in  the  eye  of  the  morn, 
As  its  rays  shoot  across  the  sweet  heather, 

And  dew-spangles  rain  from  the  tall  tasseled  corn, 
At  touch  of  the  soft  autumn  weather. 

There's  a  glorious  song  in  the  soft  amber  air, 
As  it  throbs  o'er  the  bronze-barren  meadows, 

Or  trails  in  the  forest  till  branches  are  bare, 
Where  leaves  rain  their  gold-dappled  shadows. 

There's  a  glorious  voice  in  the  whispering  stream. 

Half  akin  to  a  prayer  of  devotion, 
As  it  glides  on  and  on  like  an  unbroken  dream, 

Until  lost  in  the  terrible  ocean. 

There's  a  glorious  stain  in  the  soft  garden  aisles, 

That,  pale  in  its  beauty,  discloses, 
To  dreamy-eyed  maidens  of  questioning  smiles, 

Where  slumbers  the  ashes  of  roses. 

There's  a  glorious  charm  in  the  voice  of  the  eyes, 
When  ruled  by  love's  passionate  flutter, 

It  learns  from  the  heart  with  its  ready  reply, 
That  proudest  of  lips  could  not  utter. 

There's  a  glorious  fountain  of  joy  in  the  heart, 

And  it  whirls  to  an  ocean  of  bliss; 
When  eyes  gleam  aloof  as  the  coral  lips  part 

To  drink  of  our  sweet  autumn  kisses. 


114  THE    MISSIONARY. 

There's  a  glorious  spell  when  the  curtains  of  night, 
Are  rich  with  the  moon's  trailing  splendor, 

And  sleep  treads  the  breast  in  her  garments  of  light, 
And  sows  it  with  dreams  that  are  tender. 


A  CROWN  OF  LOVE. 

Our  neighbors  have  woven  a  costlier  crown 

Than  circles  the  brow  of  a  queen, 
With  hands  that  were  golden  and  hands  that  were 
brown, 

And  hands  that  wore  colors  between  — 
The  rose-pink  of  morning,  the  amber  of  noon, 

The  daffodil-dun,  and  the  break, 
And  orange  of  autumn  that  fades  over-soon 

With  lilies  that  laugh  on  the  lake. 

With  fingers  all  taper  and  fingers  all  tan, 

And  fingers  rich  circled  and  plain, 
Each  brought  forth  a  jewel  to  weave  in  the  plan, 

Quite  royal  in  polish  and  stain. 
The  crystal  of  pathos,  the  carmine  of  love, 

The  ruby  of  hope  burning  high, 
And  patience,  sweet  patience,  that  comes  from  above 

As  starlight  falls  down  from  the  sky. 

So,  circle  on  circle  the  coronet  rose, 

Each  weaver  swift  placing  her  part, 
Each  jewel  displacing  some  fragment  of  woes, 

That  lingered  to  torture  the  heart. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  115 

Till  bright  in  its  consummate  splendors  it  lay, 

Like  summer-sown  seasons  of  rest, 
A  new  benediction  of  beautiful  day 

That  shone  like  a  star  in  the  breast. 

Of  coral,  of  amber,  of  sapphire  and  gold, 

The  crown  of  a  queen  may  have  birth ; 
Compared  with  affection,  how  ragged  and  cold, 

How  helpless,  how  lacking  of  worth. 
The  hands  that  are  helpful  are  holy  and  dear, 

And  warm  with  ambition's  glad  fire, 
And  lips  that  breathe  comfort  are  sweeter  to  hear 

Than  tabor  or  cimbal  or  lyre. 

And  so  we  accepted  this  jewelous  plan, 

And  wreathed  it  with  fame's  sweetest  flowers, 
As  gift  of  all  giving,  most  gracious  to  man, 

Most  helpful  in  darkest  of  hours. 
And  far  through  the  weaving  we  cautiously  trace, 

Like  jewel  with  jewel  to  blend, 
The  sunshine  of  heaven  that  touches  the  face, 

Of  helper  and  neighbor  and  friend. 

God  prosper  the  weavers  wherever  they  go, 

O  lead  them  with  tenderest  care, 
Through  valleys  wide  sheltered  from  seasons  of  woe, 

And  far  from  the  walks  of  despair. 
And  when  the  great  trumpet  shall  sound  from  the 
throne, 

With  echoes  that  wander  and  quiver, 
Let  none  meet  the  dark,  troubled  waters  alone, 

God  pilot  them  over  the  river. 


116  THE    MISSIONARY. 

NEW  WREATHS. 

Say,  have  you  woven  a  wreath  to-day 

To  drop  on  the  grave  of  the  slumbering  "gray?" 

Have  you  searched  the  valleys  and  brought  anew 

A  royal  crown  for  the  silent  "blue?" 

Have  you  sought  with  fervor  the  hill  and  plain 

That  sweet  from  the  gardens  of  God  be  ta'en  — 

The  calla  lily,  the  queen  of  bloom, 

A  crown  befitting  a  dual  tomb? 

Have  you  placed  the  hand  as  a  signet,  so, 
On  the  great  pure  heart  with  its  steady  throe? 
Have  you  raised  the  eyes  with  a  tender  care, 
And  the  soul-filled  voice  with  an  earnest  prayer  ? 
Did  you  call  the  name  of  the  Master,  King, 
As  you  doled  the  wealth  of  your  offering? 
O  God,  forever  thy  will  be  done, 
To  crown  in  glory  the  twain,  as  one. 

The  great  dark  days  and  the  shadows  sleep 
In  the  vast  expanse  of  a  nameless  deep, 
And  the  sunbeams  play  with  a  golden  flood 
Where  the  lichens  blushed  with  the  stain  of  blood, 
And  the  night  steals  on  and  the  moonbeams  meet 
On  the  quiet  field,  till  the  glowing  feet 
Of  the  rushing  day,  with  its  banners  red, 
Eeturns  its  watch  to  the  waiting  dead. 

Do  the  sunbeams  dream  in  a  colder  way, 

On  the  stillness  there  that  has  crowned  the  gray? 


NEW  WREATHS.-P.  116. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  117 

Do  they  dance  adown  with  a  lesser  hue 
To  the  sleeping  couch  of  the  valiant  blue? 
Do  they  darken  half  with  a  strange  divide, 
Where  the  dauntless  kings  sleep  side  by  side? 
God  grant  it  not,  is  the  motto  true, 
That  rings  to-day  from  the  remnant  blue. 

And  so  forever  the  bravest  stand 
In  god's  great  presence  with  open  hand, 
And  so,  forever,  the  bravest  hold 
To  lips  of  valor  love's  cup  of  gold; 
And  so  forever  from  north  and  south, 
It  goes  a  glimmer  from  mouth  to  mouth ; 
God  grant  it  so,  'tis  the  bugle  play, 
Blown  from  the  lips  of  the  remnant  gray. 

And  this,  O  this,  is  the  crucial  test, 
That  calls  the  soul  to  its  highest,  best, 
And  this  the  effort  that  carried  through, 
Will  test  the  diamond  as  false  or  true, 
So  from  storms  and  their  bitter  swell, 
Out  from  the  jaws  of  a  very  hell, 
Cleansed  and  sweet  as  the  breath  of  May, 
Comes  the  armies  of  blue  and  gray. 

Northern  laurel  and  Southern  pine, 
Weave  themever  with  hands  divine, 
Weave  them  ever  that  fame  may  vow, 
Each  befitting  the  crowned  brow; 
Weave themunder  and  wave  them  through, 
Jeweled  deep  with  affection's  dew; 


118  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Tears  that  glimmer  as  words  would  hold 
Souls  of  honor  in  drops  of  gold. 

Bring  the  bugle  and  sound  the  call, 
Sound  the  rally  to  one  and  all; 
Not  a  summons  to  dress  parade, 
Not  the  council  of  one  brigade, 
Not  the  capture  of  army  corps, 
Lent  to  linger  along  the  shore, 
Kingly  gray  and  the  kingly  blue 
Sound  the  bugle  for  grand  review. 

O  the  silence,  the  fall  of  tears, 

Where  to-day  are  the  mighty  cheers? 

Where  the  banners  that  swayed  and  curled? 

Martial  travail  that  shook  the  world; 

Stately  tremble  of  falling  feet, 

Rolling  ever  as  oceans  meet, 

Rolling  ever  as  oceans  roll 

Steam  and  steady  from  pole  to  pole. 

Right  oblique  there !  close  the  lines ! 
Once  again  are  the  howling  pines 
Steaming  hot  with  the  molten  lead; 
Once  again  are  the  fields  of  dead 
Drenched  and  deep  with  the  crimson  tide, 
Hope  deferring  and  death  defied  ! 
Once  again  !  but  the  storm  is  still, 
Peace,  sweet  peace  is  the  Master's  will. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  119 

Peace,  sweet  peace,  and  the  flowers  rest 
Deep  as  love  on  the  silent  breast. 
Peace,  sweet  peace,  and  its  blessings  fall 
Rich  as  love  on  the  hearts  of  all. 
Peace,  sweet  peace,  and  its  comforts  are, 
Hope's  sweet  path  to  the  morning  star. 


SALLY  CAHOON. 

They  called  her  "Sally"  just  for  short, 
But  in  that  grand  and  higher  court, 
Where  God's  best  chosen  meet  and  move, 
And  mingle  through  the  mists  of  love, 
And  harp-strings  dawn  their  sweet  acclaim, 
They'll  know  her  by  some  better  name. 

Unselfish  soul !  not  brighter  star 
Shines  from  the  great  high  seas  afar, 
Nor  better  bloom' examples  bring 
From  love-sown  fields  of  blossoming; 
As  tower-light  gleams  across  the  flood, 
So  did  she  gleam  and  glow  for  good. 

Ah,  blessed  life,  that  souls  may  stand 
And  testify  thine  helping  hand, 
And  lips  may  tell  when  shadows  dart 
Above  the  deep  and  silent  heart. 
She  sleeps,  the  while  her  chapter  reads 
Of  naught  but  brave  and  noble  deeds. 


120  THE    MISSIONARY. 


THE  HORSEMAN'S  IDEAL. 

An  eagle  scream  and  the  mighty  steed 
Had  braced  his  muscles  and  given  heed, 
And  the  lever  slid  and  the  racer  sped 
With  a  vengeful  snort  from  his  iron  bed; 
And  he  called  aloud  to  the  waiting  night, 
To  heed  the  speed  of  his  wayward  flight. 
For  his  lungs  were  new  and  his  courage  bold, 
And  his  blazing  eye  in  a  fury  told 
That  his  heart  was  light  and  his  soul  aflame, 
For  a  record  new  to  the  page  of  fame. 

And,  O  my ! 

Did'nt  he  fly ! 

Speak  of  a  glance  of  the  human  eye, 
Bless  your  body  !  it  doesn't  bare 
Any  sort  of  a  true  compare ! 

Mercy,  no ! 

O,  its  too  slow  ! 

May  seem  funny  and  yet  'tis  so  ! 
Down  the  valley ! 

And  round  the  curve  ! 

Never  the  sign  of  a  single  swerve, 
Old  aunt  Sally  1 

But  wasn't  he 

Just  a  screamin'  the  key  of  C. 
Touch  the  throttle  and  choke  him  down; 
Pause  a  moment  to  greet  the  town, 
Brace  the  furnace  and  pull  the  bell^ 


THE    MISSIONARY.  121 

Look  at  the  dial  and  note  it  well. 
Mind  the  lever  a  moment,  hold  ! 
Hope  is  heavy  and  life  is  gold, 
Chance  is  cunning  and  freedom  sweet, 
Take  the  shackles  off  the  feet. 
Slide  the  lever  and  loose  the  rein, 
Not  the  burden  of  winding  chain, 
Not  the  mettle  of  woven  thong, 
Stands  disputing  the  way  too  long, 
Give  the  muscles  a  chance  to  play, 
Olden  records  will  melt  away. 

Full  of  ire, 

Spitting  fire, 

Reaching  out  for  the  end  of  space, 
Tell  no  more  of  the  speed  of  light; 
Not  a  messenger  born  to  flight 

Ever  need, 

Speak  of  speed. 

Fully  neck  and  a  nose  the  lead, 
Boiling  babbitt,  and  blazing  flue, 
See  him  gather  and  reach  and  climb, 
Dead  in  earnest  to  scoop  the  time. 
O  Jerusalem  !  Jonathan  !  John  ! 
Down  brakes  !  goodness  sakes  ! 

Record  beaten  ?  why  of  course  ? 

Speed  enougfi  for  a  trotting  horse  I 


122  THE    MISSION AKT. 


MEDITATION. 

I  dream  in  the  shadows,  I  dream  alone, 
And  the  night  is  dark  and  chill, 

Save  low  winds  murmur  in  monotone 
And  mutter  their  mournful  will. 

I  dream  the  moment's  away,  alack ! 

And  night  moves  on  apace, 
As  I  dream  the  long  still  voices  back, 

And  many  a  sweet  gone  face. 

The  ivy  rustles,  the  church-yard  gate 

Swings  wearily  to  and  fro, 
While  the  heart  calls  hard  for  its  olden  mate 

Of  the  sweet,  lost  long  ago. 

A  mist  has  gathered  and  dims  the  eyes, 
And  the  heart  seems  faint  and  weak, 

As  memory  paints  of  the  pallid  dyes 
That  lay  on  the  lost  one's  cheek. 

O,  winds  of  winter,  your  icy  breath 
Falls  hard  on  this  fevered  heart, 

You  sound  the  tremor  of  soulless  death 
From  over  the  tomb's  dark  mart. 

I  close  the  shutters,  I  drink  my  wine, 
And  the  moonbeams  tip  the  pane, 

And  hope  is  breathing  "the  last  of  thine 
Will  come,  like  flowers,  again." 


THE    MISSIONAEY.  123 

NATURE'S  CAST. 

How  gently  doth  the  bosom  burn, 
When  sweet  the  muse  that  lingers, 

To  draw  her  cast  from  nature's  urn 
With  fancy  fairy  fingers. 

The  morning  is  breaking,  fresh  beauties  awaking, 
And  dew-pearls  are  shaking,  in   Summer's  soft 

breeze, 
Where  flowerets  bespangle,  the  woods  wearied  tan- 

Rkj 

And  red-rosies  dangle  o'er  emerald  seas. 

Now  tall,  stately  shadows,  stretch  over  the  meadows, 
And  drop  their  rich  haloes  o'er  valley  and  glen, 

Where  wildly  are  swinging,  the  sweet  songster  sing 
ing, 
And  orioles  clinging  sweet  over  the  fen. 

Low  bends  the  green  willow,  above  the  blue  billow, 
Where  sea  lilies  pillow  their  bosoms  of  snow, 

And  gold-fish  are  darting,  the  blue  waters  parting, 
Now  stopping,  now  starting,  their  shadows  below. 

The  blue-bells  a-quiver,  beside  the  dark  river, 
They  tremble,  and  shiver,  and  dance  on  its  brink, 

Then  bending  all  lowly,  so  perfect,  so  holy, 
They  lean,  O  so  slowly,  and  gracefully  drink. 

No  dream  could  ensplendor,  a  vision  more  tender, 
$"o  fancy  could  render  a  scene  more  divine, 


124  THE    MISSIONARY. 

The  blue  heavens  bending,  the  sunlight  descending 
And  flow'rets  attending  each  trail  of  the  vine. 

O  then  let  us  tarry  with  nature,  the  fairy. 
So  queenly,  so  airy,  so  grand  in  repose, 

Her  dear  form  reclining,  where  myrtles  are  twining, 
Her  fair  cheek  enshrining  the  blush  of  the  rose- 


POESY. 

Sweet  silent  visitor,  consoling  comfort  of  my  idle 
hours, 

What  depths  of  iove,  unsullied,  thee  I  owe  ! 
Deep  fraught  each  page   with   wisdom's   glorious 
flowers, 

Soft  voiceless  whispers  unto  me  you  throw; 
All  richly   deep  those  silent  sounds,  down  through 
the  mind-aisles  flung, 

Pure  melodies  of  golden  voice-set  seemings, 
Like  silvery  notes  of  Sabbath  bells  light  rung, 

So  deep,  so  soft,  so  pure,  thy  tones  to  me. 
O  welcome  guest,  I  love  to  chat  with  thee, 

Away,  loud-voiced  and  hideous  revelries  by  night! 
Demoniac  dances  at  the  festal  board  ! 

Ye  bring  but  sorrow,  ye  but  blear  the  sight, 
Yc  teach  the  soul  no  sweet  consoling  word. 

Ye  grieve  the  breast  with  direful  misery  ! 
Ye  are  no  joy,  no  comforter  to  me; 

My  chosen  friend  —  sweet-hearted  poesy. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  125 


JOIN  HANDS. 

Join  hands!  the  marble-natured  past,  oh,  let  it  sleep, 
Lo,  flowery-featured  May's  most  tender  tears  are 

falling ; 

And  o'er  the  hill  and  vale  and  the  far-reaching  deep 
I  hear  a  voice,  it  nears  me  now,  and  nearing  yet 

is  calling, 
Out  across  the  green- veiled  solitudes ;  hear  me,  hear 

me  ! 
Ye  saddened  hearts  draw  near,  listen   and  moan 

no  more; 
I  hail  from  courts  that  lie  beyond  your  ken  and  this 

to  thee, 

My  mission?  joy  to  thee.    Lo,  I  am  Peace,  kneel 
gently  and  adore. 

Join  hands!  and  in  the  sight  of  God  and  all  that's 

goodness  say 
The  night  has  past,  and  with  it  borne  away  the 

last  of  clouds. 
All  hail  the  morn  !  that  jewelled  hour  of  roseate 

bursting  day 
Whose  blooming  vales  lie  far  and  fair  to  view, 

nor  mist  enshrouds, 
Nor  shadow  flaunts  the  way.      Man,  thine  aspiring 

nature  now 

Should  teach  the  subtle  mystery  of  its  power:  this 
very  hour; 


126  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Before  the  shrine  of  Justice  thou  shouldst  calmly 

bow, 

And  bowing  cry  "Obeisance  to  thy  will,  Justice 
we  love  thy  power  ! " 

Join  hands !   O  ye  of  brave  intelligence  lead  on,  go 

forth  beneath  the  stars! 
Go  flaunt  love's  chosen  ensign  square   upon  the 

breast-works  of  your  foe; 
The  sweet-songed  seraphs  bid  you  go,  the  harp  J£o. 

lean  jars, 
And  far  and  near  and  all  around  I  hear  sweet 

music  flow. 
Tis  harmony's  glad  choir !     Go,  child  of  soft  blue 

eyes  and  golden  hair, 
Go  forth  and  drink  thy  heart's  content  of  melody; 

and  you 
Proud  maidens,  born  of  years  more  ripe,  and  lips 

more  rare 

And  red  than  roses  are,  go  forth  and  bathe  in 
love's  allaying  dew. 

Join   hands!  ^from  every  sweet-tongued   bell  ring 

forth  incentive  notes, 
And  when  the  debonarian  groves  are  filled  with 

music,  say  — 
Go  forth,  ye  wandering  winds,  and  from  your  silken 

throats 

Breathe  them  unto  the  sea,  and  to  the  isles  that 
linger  far  away, 


THE    MISSIONARY.  127 

Let  morning  drink  the  sounds,  and  in  the  day's  high 

noon, 
Or  when  the  sun  leans  gently  o'er  the  holy  twi 

light  hours, 

O  let  them  still  ring  on,  and  like  the  wind-harp's  tune 
Disturb  the  light-winged  dews  that  sleep  on  red- 
eyed  flowers. 

Join  hands !  and  while  the  poet  chants  a  heart-felt 

praise, 
Lead  on  from  grove  and  hill  and  the  far-reaching 

plain. 
One  phalanx  deep  and  wide,  come  ye  from  all  the 

ways. 
Come  like  the  bloom  of  May,  one  love-linked, 

endless  chain, 
Keep  time  to  pattering  feet,  with  song  and  solace 

sweet, 
And  like  an  endless  rhyme  of  blue-eyed   summer 

time, 

Fill  all  the  gracious  land  with  hope  and  joys  com- 
lete. 


IMPUNITY. 

Impunity  ever  breeds  courage 
As  truly  example  has  shown; 

The  longer  offense  goes  unpunished, 
The  wider  her  acres  are  sown. 


128  THE    MISSIONAKY. 

SOLID  DIAMOND. 
I  see  my  little  boy  at  play 

Among  the  blossoms  wild, 
A  wingless  bee,  that  dares  to  stray 

The  gardens  undefiled, 
And  watch  the  eager  sunbeams  lay 

A  carpet  for  the  child. 

I  see  the  little  fingers  reach 
The  roses  in  their  bower, 

A  loveliness  that  might  beseech 
A  love  from  fairer  flower, 

Tip-toeing  there  in  turn  to  teach 
The  sweetness  of  its  dower. 

I  watch  the  dimples  come  and  throw 

A  kiss  to  cheeks  of  tan, 
As  eddies  in  the  waters  show 

And  circle  in  their  plan, 
So  do  these  whirling  dimples  sow 

My  handsome  little  man. 

The  morning  leans  an  angel  down, 
With  tender  hands  and  true, 

Lays  on  the  head  a  golden  crown, 
And  lights  the  eyes  of  blue, 

Then  paints  the  cheek  of  sunny  brown 
A  more  enchanting  hue. 

Where  is  the  hand  of  cunning  now, 
The  artist's  boasted  grace, 


''' iiillliliai  liilili 


SOLID  DIAMOND.-P.  128. 


CAUTEL.-P.  12a 


THE    MISSIONAKY.  '    129 

Could  pain  the  splendors  of  that  brow, 

Or  pencil  such  a  face, 
Or  grasp  the  sweet  conception  how 

To  weave  the  color  lace? 

Not  all  the  artists  ever  grew 

Could  paint  a  scene  like  this, 
And  pencill'd  splendor  never  knew 

The  key  to  royal  bliss, 
For  tho'  its  aim  be  ever  true 

Its  arrows  go  amiss. 

The  poet  doffs  the  laurel  crown 

And  folds  the  soaring  wing, 
The  while  he  lays  the  pencil  down 

And  owns  the  master  king; 
For  hands  of  art  and  poesy 

Have  no  such  offering. 

No,  this  is  not  a  fancy  scene, 

Soliloquized  and  new, 
And  not  a  fairy  hand  to  glean 

The  roses  sweet  with  dew, 
But  solid  diamond  set  between 

The  blossoms  where  they  grew. 


CAUTEL. 

Ah  !  my  sweet  and  winsome  lady, 
Wander  where  the  walks  are  shady, 


130  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Wander  where  the  wine  is  hid, 
Neath  the  blossom's  tender  lid. 
Wander  where  the  waiting  feet, 
Crush  the  bloom  that  waits  to  greet  you, 
Wander  where  the  tempests  meet, 
In  the  heart  that  waits  to  meet  you. 

Watch  the  little  stars  that  rise, 
Through  the  distance,  leaning  over, 
Where  the  moonbeam  drips  and  dies, 
Golden  —  on  the  fields  of  clover; 
Where  the  silent  bee  has  flown, 
Nimble,  dusky,  thieving  rover; 
Wander  lightly  and  alone, 
There  to  meet  your  silent  lover. 

Truly,  eager  watchful  eyes, 
Will  be  ever  searching  steady, 
Prying  for  that  paradise, 
That  awaits  you,  wily  lady. 
Not  for  mischief  ?    Mercy,  no ! 
Else  the  mischief  be  repeating, 
Softly  watching^pnly  so  — 
Joy  may  iearn  the  bliss  of  meeting. 

Place  your  little  fingers  there, 
On  the  heart  so  wildly  swaying, 
Curb  the  flaunting  golden  hair, 
Lest  its  banner  be  betraying, 
Lift  the  little  foot  with  care, 
Lean  a  moment,  lean  and  listen  ! 


THE    MISSIONARY.  131 

Danger !  is  it  lurking  where 
Yonder  clovers  bend  and  glisten  ? 

Ah !  the  moments  are  as  death, 
And  the  stillness,  it  is  cruel, 
Save,  indeed  !  this  heavy  breath  — 
That  is  waging  heart  a  duel, 
And,  (for  shame)  these  falling  tears, 
Feeding  all  my  fears  with  fuel, 
Each  succeeding  step  appears, 
Gleaming  with  a  lusty  jewel. 

Love  thou  art  a  wonder  flame  ! 
(Woman-weighed)  above  the  level, 
Thou  could'st  even  tempt  the  same; 
Brave  the  night  or  dare  the  devil, 
Not  delinquent,  sweet  Roland? 
Kiss  me  love,  the  storm  is  over, 
Heart  to  heart,  and  hand  to  hand; 
What  were  life  without  a  lover ! 


FREEDOM'S  SONG. 

Where  the  harp  ^Eolian  jars, 
And  aurora  drops  her  splendor, 

Round  a  zone  of  blazing  stars, 
Silvery  soft  and  sweetly  tender, 

Let  us  wander  and  adore 

Shouting  freedom  evermore. 


132  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Where  the  dimpled  waters  glide, 
And  bright  rainbow  beauties  hover, 

O'er  the  blue  wave's  crested  tide, 
Like  a  silver-pinioned  plover, 

Let  us  rove  through  freedom's  glare, 

Lisping  soft  a  silent  prayer. 

Where  the  pearl  upon  the  sands, 
Washed  by  each  surrounding  sea, 

Sings  of  freedom's  holy  lands, 
Sings  forever  of  the  free; 

Let  us  gently  kneel  and  crave 

Strength  of  Him  who  rules  the  wave. 

Where  the  silver  queen  of  night, 

Veils  the  flower-bespangled  meadows, 

Weaving  'neath  her  velvet  light, 
Fancy  worlds  of  fairy  shadows; 

Let  us  wander  neath  her  dyes 

Praising  Him  who  rules  the  skies. 

Where  the  blue-eyed  angel  wings 

Through  the  star  gemmed  ether  o'er  us, 

Where  the  sunbeam  ever  flings 
Glory  on  the  path  before  us; 

Let  us,  wandering,  gaze  above, 

Thanking  God  for  freedom's  love. 

Where  the  daisies  taint  the  air, 

And  our  starry  flag  discloses, 
Kissing  freedom's  golden  glare, 


THE    MISSIONARY.  133 

O'er  a  dewy  land  of  roses, 
Let  us  ramble  o'er  the  sod 
Singing  praises  to  our  God. 

Where  a  rhythmic  ecno  swells, 

Lingering  on  the  viewless  air, 
Echo  of  our  evening  bells, 

Softly  calling  unto  prayer; 
Let  us  wander  there  and  sing, 
Praises  to  our  God  and  king. 

Where  in  characters  of  gold, 

Fame's  celestial  star  is  set, 
And  the  laurel  wreaths  enfold 

Washington  and  Lafayette, 
Let  us  knell  and  lift  a  prayer, 
God  will  surely  meet  us  there. 


THE  LAST  WATCH. 

The  night  is  deep  and  still  and  dark, 
How  slow  the  chill  hours  creep; 

The  low  winds  sob  around,  a  bark— 
Lies  trembling  on  life's  deep. 

The  dark  waves  creep  in  silence  round, 

I  hush  my  painful  breath ; 
Ah,  lonesome  anguish  deep  thy  wound  ! 

Oh!  tell  me— is  this  death? 


134  THE   MISSIONARY. 

I  kneel  and  kiss  a  marble  brow, 
I  press  a  thin  white  hand  ; 

Low  o'er  the  slumbering  clay  I  bow, 
I  cannot  understand. 

Another  sweep  of  time's  swift  wings, 
Night  doffs  her  sable  dyes; 

Lo !  morning,  no  new  glory  brings 
To  light  those  dim  blue  eyes. 

I  turn  my  gaze  to  meet  the  east, 
Then  back  to  this  cold  clay; 

How  still  she  lies,  the  soul  released 
Has  flown  before  the  day. 


TO  MRS.  ANDREW  ANDERSON. 

THE  LILIES  THAT  YOU  GAVE. 

The  lilies  that  you  gave  us  to  lay  beside  our  dead. 
Were  sweeter  in  their  language,  than  lips  have  ever 

said, 

And  bright  with  royal  splendor, beyond  a  starry  gem, 
And  pure  and  analytic  of  the  heart  that  offered  them. 

Yea,  love  can  weigh  the  measure  that  walks  with 

little  feet ! 
And  death  has  sure  dominion  o'er  hearts  that  cease 

to  beat; 


THE    MISSIONARY.  135 

Yet  through  the  fog  chaotic  of  dread  an/1  darksome 
hours,  [ers. 

A  blessed  bow  of  promise,  the  hand  that  offers  flow- 
So,  when  you  gave  the  lilies,  that  dreamed  amid 

the  light, 

You  swept  a  chord  immortal,  that  slept  amid  the 

blight,  [deep  — 

And  love  across  the  silence  made  answer  soft  and 

Love  will  be  love  forever,  tho'  sorrow  dares  to  weep. 

And  so  each  tender  proffer  will  meet  its  sure  reward, 
Each  blessed  act  a  lily  that  waves  above  the  sword, 
And  little  hands  will  carry  the  deed  across  the  wave 
And  lift  them  to  the  Master— the  lilies  that  you  gave. 


GIMPY'S  NEKYE. 

There  were  hard  dark  eager  faces  amid  the  crowd 
that  night, 

There  in  that  hell  of  splendor  and  mixed  with  the 
town's  elite, 

Were  great  coarse  forms  and  brutal,  and  full  of  a 
devil's  stare 

Were  green-blue  eyes  of  players  watching  with  hun 
gry  glare — 

The  soft  white  hands  of  women,  pulling  their  win 
nings  down, 

Or  placing  a  new  replenish  of  single  or  double  crown. 


136  THE    MISSIONARY. 

At  face  with  the  "royal  tiger"  that  stood  like  a  god 

of  old, 
And  pulled  to  his  purring  bosom  the  plenteous  piles 

of  gold. 

Here  was  a  stack  of  fifties,  there  was  the  chip  of  a 

ten, 

Lost  to  the  hungry  demon,  doubled  and  lost  again, 
Quadrupled,  trebled  and  doubled,  for  thus  did  the 

dealer  command —  [hand, 

"Never  a  limit  but  ceiling,  pile  with  a  plenteous 
Long  have  you  clamored  and  waited,  calling  the 

requisite  tame, 
Claiming  the  nerve  has  grown  feeble,  running  a 

"limited"  game. 
So  for  to-night  (and  that  only)  pile  your   bright 

shekels  and  well, 
Twenty  good  feet  to  the  ceiling,  there's  where  the 

limit  shall  dwell." 

Cheer  upon  cheer,  approbative,  drove  the  red  lights 

to  a  swim, 
Glasses  and  gleaming  decanters  long  gurgled  loud 

at  the  brim; 
Hands  that  were   tireless   and   bony    lent   a   new 

strength  with  their  grip, 

Passing  the  soul-burning  fury  onto  the  feverish  lip. 
So,  for  the  dealer  had  uttered,  "Full  the  flood-gates 

all  ajar, 
Not  one  condition  of  limit  either  at  business  or  bar; 


THE    MISSIONARY.  137. 

Not  one  condition  of  limit  — pile  the  rieh  dust  of 

your  wares, 
Pile  till  the  heart  shall  grow  dizzy,  topping  the  gold 

of  your  stairs ! " 

Down  for  the  deal !  all  ready !  then  in  the  stillness 
of  death, 

Save  of  wild  heart's  fever-beating  and  of  hard  pull 
ing  for  breath, 

Slid  the  soft  chords  from  their  places,  still  as  the 
stealth  of  a  sin, 

And  the  great  hands  of  the  dealer  drew  the  rich 
monuments  in. 

Stack  after  stack  of  bright  silver,  many  a  green 
bundle  rolled, 

Many  a  ten-times-a-twenty  tinged  with  a  shimmer 
of  gold, 

Paying  the  few  that  were  lucky,  missing  the  blight 
of  the  frost, 

Out  from  the  great  rolling  bounty  loving  compan 
ions  had  lost. 

Smiles  lit  the  face  of  the  dealer.  Yes  the  "old  ti 
ger"  was  true. 

Down  with  your  chips  and  be  ready,  fifty  must  go 
on  the  blue, 

Crimsons  are  calling  for  twenty,  whites  must  go 
over  for  ten, 

Down  with  your  dust  and  be  ready,  come  to  the 
ante  like  men. 


138  THE    MISSION AKT. 

Then  with  a  clamorous  rustle,  crowding  like  demons 
ablaze, 

Faces  are  jostled  together,  fingers  are  touching  the 
baize, 

And  the  smooth  "ivories"  settle  deep  in  their  cir 
cles  of  rest, 

There  in  the  face  of  the  dealer,  down  on  the  old 
tiger's  breast. 

All  down,  all  ready,  stillness  has  gathered  agajn  — 

Hush  !  the  deep  breath  of  the  bettors,  ah,  but  the 
moments  are  pain, 

See  how  the  faces  are  bleaching,  lips  have  grown 
pallid  and  cold, 

Yea,  for  the  clutch  of  the  demon  circles  their  treas 
ures  of  gold. 

Only  the  dealer  is  steady,  only  the  dealer?  oh,  hold  ! 

Yonder  the  face  of  a  woman  bright  as  the  summers 
of  old  ;  [strung, 

See,  not  a  shadow  of  trouble,  see,  not  a  nerve  is  un- 

Nerve  like  the  nerve  of  a  tiger,  tenderly  handsome 
and  young. 

Ah,  but  the  woman  is  winning,  swiftly  the  many,go 

down, 
Only  a  few  are  left  playing,  far  through  the  dusk 

of  the  town, 
Slowly,  unsteadily,  going,  tramping  and  dreaming, 

they  go, 
"  O  had  I  placed  it,  a  copper,  this  way  or  that  way, 

and  so, 


THE    MISSIONARY.  139 

Deuce  to  the  ace,  taking  seven,  then  could  I  heh> 
but  have  won  ? 

Well  am  I  worse  than  the  many,  most  of  the  play 
ers  were  done; 

Blamed  little  good  in  the  glory,  sewing  the  savings 
of  years, 

Well  it  is  weakness  to  simper,  times,  there  is  com 
fort  in  tears.  " 

Losf,  but  the  woman  is  winning,  winning  the  wom 
an  is  lost, 

Ah,  could  she  see  to  the  future,  counting  the  ter 
rible  cost, 

Then  would  the  white  fingers  tremble,  pushing  the 
"blues"  to  their  place, 

And  the  proud  smiles  that  are  winning,  die  from 
that  beautiful  face. 

Hold  !  but  the  woman  is  losing,  stack  after  stack 
of  the  blues 

Sweep  from  her  grasp  like  a  fury,  place  them  how- 
e'er  she  may  choose, 

Swiftly  and  steadily  going,  does  the  hand  tremble 
the  while? 

No,  but  the  eyes  seem  to  brighten,  meeting  each 
loss  with  a  smile. 

Piling  the  chances  together,hush  !  the  red  lights  dim 
mer  burn, 

Something  uncommon  is  coming,  see,  she  is  cabling 
the  turn; 


140  THE    MISSIONARY. 

"Five  for  the  one,  if  I  chatter  straight  on  the  turn 

grading  down !" 
Yes !  and  the  dealer  had  nodded,  ah,  it  was  worlds 

for  a  crown, 
"Worlds  to  a  crown,"  (said  the  woman)  chances  so 

many  to  one 
Take  if  you  win,  and  be  clever!  lost,  I  will  smile 

and  be  done; 
Folding  her  arms  in   composure,  waiting  her  fate 

like  a  queen, 
Long  in  the  frolics  of   fortune  —  "queen    of   the 

baize  "  she  had  been. 

Nine-spot  in  sight,  that  is  easy,  under  it,  ace  fol 
lows  tray; 

(Stooping,  she  wrote  of  the  chances  plainly  to  read 
in  that  way) 

"Nine-spot  in  sight,  that  is  easy,underit  aca  fellows 
tray, 

Yes,  I  will  chance  the  blue  volley,  played  in  that 
mystical  way." 

All  but  the  dealer  is  steady,  now  there  are  only  the 
two; 

Well  has  he  thought  of  the  winning  should  it  go 
down  on  the  blue, 

Slowly  the  cards  are  slid  over,  quietly  too  it  is  done — 

Gods,  but  the  chances  are  heavy,  ah,  but  the  wom 
an  has  won  ! 

Lost,  but  the  woman  is  winning,  winning  the 
an  is  lost; 


THE    MISSIONARY.  HI 

O  could  she  see  to  the  future,  counting  the  terrible 

cost, 
Then  would  the  white  lingers  tremble,  pushing  the 

blues  to  their  place, 
And  the  proud  smiles  that  are   winning  fade  from 

that  beautiful  face. 
There   in  the  gold   she  has  gathered,   buried  the 

summers  of  years, 
There  in  the  ring  of  the  silver,  voices  of  trials  and 

tears; 
There  in   the  crushed   legal-tender  crimped  in  so 

many  a  fold, 
Lies  the  lost  hope  of  a  brother,  dearer  than  diamonds 

or  gold. 

Close  the  great  doors  that  are  swinging,  hide   the 

dread  sight  from  the  sun; 
Lost !  tho'  the  woman   was  winning,  yes  the  great 

battle  is  done; 
And  the  red  lights  burning  lowly,  symbol  the  wrecks 

that  are  gone; 
Pale  in  a  glow  that  was  glory,  dead  in  the  light  of 

the  dawn. 
Kneel  wily  queen  with  your  booty,  kneel,  for  your 

palace  is  cold  1 
Love  has  gone  out  like  the  glimmer,  arched  in  yon 

circles  of  gold. 
Love  has  gone  out,  and  that  honor,  grand   for   a 

woman  to  wear, 
Lies  like  a  bloom  that  is  trambled  black  with  the 

feet  of  despair. 


142  THE    MISSIONARY. 


BUGLE  CALLS,  OK  HIGH  POKER. 

Ho !  sound  the  bugle,  brother  man,  and  gather  in 

the  crew, 
There's  not  so  many  of  us  now,  as  once  have  worn 

the  blue ; 
Our  ranks  are  thinning,  year  by  year,  old  Time  will 

clear  the  decks, 
And  ask  the  last  one  tumbles  in  his  remnant  of  the 

"checks." 
But  we  have  played  the  ' '  ante  "  high,  and  we  have 

had  our  time, 
And  proud  to  say  they  never  called  the  place  we 

didn't  climb. 
Old  Dixie's  sons  were  true  as  steel,  and  loyal  to  their 

cause, 
But  missed  some  splendid  ruling  points  in  war's 

high  poker  laws. 

They  sometimes  played  us  pretty  hard,  and   stood 

our  biggest  "raise," 
And  sometimes  bluffed  us  squarely  out,  with  nothing 

up  but  trays. 
They  pushed  the  issue  day  and  night,  and  Anted  up 

like  men, 
But  then  we  had  them  on  the  draw,  and  took  it 

down  again. 
They  made  some  splendid  deals  at  first,  and  nearly 

won  the  cup; 


THE    MISSIONARY.  143 

For  Lee  and  Jackson  at  the  head  were  two  grand 
aces  up. 

But  Grant  had  got  the  deck  at  last,  and  wher  ^e 
made  a  stand, 

They  found  fixed  with  three  big  kings  in  every  sol 
dier's  hand. 

God  knows,  they  thought  their  cause  was  just ;  we 

knew  our  cause  was  right; 

This  conflict  of  opinions  then,  forced  on  that  fever 
ed  tight. 
We  have  no  war  at  issue  now,  and  this  is  blessed 

May; 
Throw  wide  the  portals  of  your  heart  and  welcome 

in  the  gray. 
We  swapped  tobacco  at  the  front,  on  picket  lines, 

before ; 
How  shall  we  turn  the  shoulder  now,  and  close  the 

common  door? 
We  might  forgive  to  each  the  past,  as  each  would 

be  forgiven, 
And  join  one  common  circle  where  the  boys  look 

down  —  from  heaven. 

Then  sound  your  bugle,  brother  man,  and  call  the 

men  this  way ; 
And,  if  the  ranks  of  blue  be  thin  and  sprinkled  with 

the  gray, 

'Twill  weave  the  realistic  in, with  visions  of  the  past, 
And  help  to  fill  the  little  lines  that  dwindle  down  so 

fast. 


144  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Though  we  have  faced  them  fierce  and  fast,  and 
fought  them  hand  to  hand, 

With  ranks  that  cried,  Columbia !  while  they  ans 
wered,  Maryland ! 

We'll  lay  the  hard  old  grudges  down,  and  welcome 
soldiers  true, 

To  mingle  with  our  fading  ranks  —  to  deck  the  gray 
and  blue. 

Then  sound  your  bugle,  sound  it  loud  !    Push  forth 

the  quivering  strain ! 
'Till  all  the  hosts  that  flood  the  wood  and  scour  the 

distant  plain, 
Shall  come  with  garlands  fresh  and  sweet  and  ling 

ering  scent  of  bloom, 

And  build  their  floral  wreaths  of  love  on  every  sol 
dier's  tomb. 
For  where  the  tall,  green  southern  pines,  in  all  their 

splendors  sway, 
They  pile  the  blossoms  equal  height  above  the  blue 

and  gray, 
They  go  from  out  their  shattered  homes,  with  tears 

that  long  are  wet, 
And  teach  that  sweet  forgiveness  but  a  coward  could 

forget. 

Soft  sound  the  bugle,  brother  man,  and  let  the  ban 
ners  play, 

We'll  have  to  leave  the  dress-parade  to  younger 
men  to-day. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  145 

This  stumping  round  on  wooden  legs  and  striving 
for  a  show, 

Would  only  grieve  the  boys  that  watched  our  mo 
tions  years  ago. 

That  double-quick  would  get  us  now,  rheumatics 
linger  here, 

And  every  effort  to  comply  would  force  a  double 
tear ; 

For  not  alone  the  soldier  weeps  this  opportune  decay, 

The  heart  that  loves  the  soldier  feels  and  weeps  as 
well  as  they. 

Ho  !  Shoulder  arms  !    Ah  now,  indeed,  how  too  that 

order  grieves. 
Dear  hearts,  it's  hard  to  handle  guns  with  limp  and 

empty  sleeves; 
And  see,  along  the  shattered  line  that  erst   was 

straight  and  grand, 
A  coat  that  holds  an  empty  sleeve,  an  arm  without 

a  hand ; 
And  crippled  limbs  and  bending  forms  that  once 

were  grand  and  tall, 
And  God,  there  are  some  places  where  we  see  no 

forms  at  all. 
Close  up  the  line,  close  up  the  line !    Sound  out  the 

bugle  still ! 
Till  every  living  comrade  hears  the  call  from  Zion's 

hill. 

Well,  sound  your  bugle  once  again,  and  call  the 
comrades  in. 


146  THE    MISSIONARY. 

The  cards  were  cut  and  shuffled  well ;  the  game  was 

played  to  win. 
The  stakes  were  high,  jesf  dreadful  high,  the  world 

will  understand, 

It  cost  a  thousand  lives  at  times  to  see  a  single  hand. 
There  were  no  limits  to  the  game,  they  never  asked 

a  sight, 
But  stood  the  raise  like  little  men,  and  fought  it  out 

with  might. 
They  held  the  flushes  straight  and  clean,  and  stood 

them  out  a  pat. 
We  drew  and  caught  a  world  of   kings,   and  beat 

them  after  that. 

We  have  no  war  at  issue  now,  and  this  is  velvet 
May, 

And  God's  impartial  hand  has  crowned,  alike  the 
blue  and  gray. 

So  from  the  ample  fields  we  seek,  we'll  cull  the  sweet 
est  flowers, 

And  pile  the  graves  of  theirs  as  deep  as  they  shall 
cover  ours. 

Then  sound  the  bugle,  loud  and  shrill,  push  forth 
the  quivering  blast, 

Till  its  receding  echoes  touch  the  valleys  of  the  past ; 

Till  echo  wakes  its  echo  on,  beyond  the  vales  of  care 

And  every  soldier  hears  the  sound  and  gathers  with 
us  there. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  147 


MY  PHANTOM  BKIDE. 

The  hours  go  by,  and  cold  and  pale, 
I  watch  the  white  moon's  wayward  sail, 
And,  watching,  wonder  of  the  fate 
That  brings  my  tardy  bride  so  late. 
Did  she  not  vow  that  eventide 
Should  find  her  fortressed  at  my  side? 
Did  she  not  vow,  when  evening  stars 
Should  dance  above  horizon  bars, 
These  ready  lips  again  should  prove 
The  subtle  touch  of  heart's  true  love. 

Did  she  not  swear,  by  lake  and  land 
And  lofty  lift  of  jewelled  hand, 
That  tlio'  the  sun-tides  missed  the  noon, 
And  sea-tides  wandered  over-soon, 
Tiue  as  the  changing  moons  to  sea, 
Her  presence  would  come  back  to  me? 
O  how  these  laggard  moments  move, 
Like  musty  age  in  waiting  groove. 
Their  hollow  tramp  and  haughty  mien, 
Tell  not  a  word  of  her,  my  queen. 

Oft  have  I  dreamt  of  doubt  and  shade, 
Yet,  like  glad  stars  that  never  fade, 
Or  diamond  touch  of  morning  dew, 
Her  promises  were  ever  true. 
And  she  will  come,  my  phantom  bride, 
Whate'er  the  fates  by  time  betide, 


148  THE    MISSIONARY. 

With  airy  sweep  of  paddle  bright, 
To  sail  the  currents  of  the  night, 
Would  prove  her  .soul's  enchanting  will. 
And  waiting  love  will  trust  her  still. 

Yes,  they  have  cried  her  false  —  and  when? 

Those  whispered  words  of  lying  men. 

They  drive  a  dagger  to  my  heart ! 

Or  worse,  they  tear  its  throbs  apart, 

And  charge  its  quivering  pulse  of  stain, 

With  anguish  that  is  more  than  pain, 

Yet  I  do  swear  by  yonder  blue, 

Her  promises  were  ever  true, 

True  as  yon  westward  moon  a  guide  — 

My  light,  my  life,  my  phantom  bride ! 

And  she  will  come,  I  wait  her  long. 

Whippoorwill. 

Hark !  'tis  the  night-bird's  plaintive  song, 
Sweet,  way  ward  notes,  hold,  birdie,  hold! 
I  hear  her  dripping  oar  of  gold. 
Was  it  the  pine  tree's  dropping  dart, 
Or  sound  of  this  lone  beating  heart? 

Whippoorwill. 

I  hear  the  kissing  waters  meet 
And  dance  around  her  dimpled  feet. 

Whippoorwill. 

But  no,  those  trooping  sounds  are  stayed, 
'Twas  but  the  night  wind's  dress  parade. 

O  but  I  thought  at  last,  at  last, 
Fulfilled  that  promise  of  the  past ! 


THE    MISSIONARY.  149 

I  almost  had  her  in  my  arms, 
Oh,  how  love's  bounding  current  warms ! 
But  disappointment,  fatal  word  — 
As  eagle  strikes  the  singing  bird, 
You  drive  your  sharp  beak's  ebon  dart 
Far  down  the  summer  of  my  heart, 
And  leave  me  lone  and  waiting  still, 
Companion  of  poor  whippoorwill. 

Whippoorwill. 

Strange  bird,  so  singing  to  the  moon  ! 
What  woes  awoke  your  plaintive  tune? 
Has  fate's  decree  to  thee  betide 
A  waiting  for  some  tardy  bride? 

Whippoorwill. 

Don't  grieve,  don't  grieve,  sweet  bird,  no,  no, 

But  tell  me  truly  of  your  woe. 

Your  silence  weighs  my  heart  with  fears— 

Whippoorwill. 

Your  singing  fills  mine  eyes  with  tears. 

So  lone,  so  lone,  so  desolate  I 

Like  thee,  sweet  bird,  without  a  mate 

Pheasant  drums. 

But  hark  !  what  new  departures  come  ? 
'Tis  but  the  pheasant's  drowsy  drum. 
What  weariness  these  sounds  awake  1 
Yet  love  could  die  for  love's  sweet  sake, 
And  'mid  its  storms  of  prayers  and  tears, 
Of  cancelled  hopes  and  groundless  fears, 
Be  buried  quite,  all  unawares, 
Like  blossoms  over-choked  with  tares 


150  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Breathe  out  their  last  faint,  parting  breath, 
And  fall  asleep,  so  light  is  death. 

Whippoorwill. 

Lo  !  I  must  rest  these  watchful  eyes, 

As  one  to  enter  paradise. 

With  eager  heart  I  yet  will  wait, 

Beside  hope's  towering  jewelled  gate. 

For  she  will  come,  my  phantom  bride, 

In  dreams  forever  at  my  side. 

So  lightly  and  so  sweetly  dressed, 

With  bloom  at  brow  and  bloom  at  breast, 

And  tempting  sorg  that  ever  will 

Trade  notes  with  song  of  whippoorwill. 

Whippoorwill. 

Ah,  dreadful  war  to  battle  sleep, 
With  eyes  that  ever  wake  to  weep. 
Poor  eyes,  poor  eyes,  how  dim  your  gaze, 
From  searching  of  your  silent  ways. 
By  cove  and  lake  and  sanded  beach, 
No  form  arrests  your  straining  reach. 
But  on,  still  on  I  as  if  to  be 
Led  fairly  through  eternity. 
From  moving  moon,  to  ocean's  crest 
Still  wandering,  still  wishing  rest, 

And  thou  shalt  sleep,  tho'  all  my  heart 
Should  walk  in  wakefulness  apart ; 
And  thou  shalt  rest  one  long,  sweet  rest, 
Tho'  flaming  daggers  pierce  this  breast. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  151 

For  with  this  silken  kerchief  white,  • 
I'll  bind  the  wanders  of  your  flight 

Binds  eyes. 

Thus  bring  restriction  to  the  gaze 
That  drives  my  wakeful  brain  a-craze. 
So  shalt  thou  rest  as  thou  art  tied, 
And  wait  the  coming  of  my  bride. 

Pretends  sleep.   .Whippoorwill. 
Whippoorwill  pauses.    Low,  sweet  song  is  heard, woman's  voice. 

She  comes,  she  comes !  ah,  true  to  me ; 
That  same  sweet  song !    I  cannot  see  ! 
For  I  am  blind,  am  blind,  am  blind  ! 
O  Father,  hast  thou  thus  designed 
To  hide  from  these  long-tortured  eyes, 
This  one  bright  gleam  of  paradise? 
Ah  no,  no,  no  !  I  mind  me  now, 
This  bandage  placed  upon  my  brow. 
Strange  addlings  of  a  troubled  mind, 
In  faith,  I  thought  me  surely  blind. 

Was  it  a  dream?  ah,  strange  indeed! 

What  wondrous  tales  the  night  winds  read, 

All  blown  from  those  enchanted  isles, 

So  sweet  with  hope,  so  dressed  in  smiles, 

A  touch  of  faith,  a  balm  of  rose, 

Light  wafted  to  the  heart's  repose. 

A  solace  from  the  sounds  of  pain, 

That  gives  us  back  our  loved  again. 

On  pity's  wings,  oh,  tender  tide, 

Bring  back,  bring  back,  my  phantom  bride. 


152  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Whippoorwill. 

0  she  will  come,  I  know  her  true  ! 
Her  boat  glides  in  upon  the  blue, 
Like  some  faint  touch  of  fairy  wand, 
A  beckon  from  the  far  beyond. 
With  shining  reach  of  shapely  oar, 
She  drives  the  laughing  waves  ashore, 
The  while,  her  trailing  mantles  sweep, 
The  merry  dimples  of  the  deep, 

Or,  linger  in  their  starry  fold 
Around  the  shining  keel  of  gold. 

I'll  send  the  waves  a  random  shot, 
To  mind  her  of  the  tristing  spot. 

Shoots.          Loon. 

Was  it  a  scream?    O  God,  this  heart 
Will  rend  its  shattered  cell  apart! 

LOOD. 

Again,  again,  that  awful  breath! 

1  heard  the  gutteral  sounds  of  death. 
I  dare  not  gaze,  I  know  the  flood 

Is  crimsoned  with  her  holy  blood. 

Loon. 

Hold,  heavens  hold  !  I  hear  the  break^ 
Of  laughing  loon,  go  down  the  lake. 

Loon. 

Indeed,  indeed,  the  loon's  wild  cries ! 
So  may  I  trust  these  anxious  eyes, 
And  if  the  waves  are  free  from  stain, 
My  poor  heart  gains  relief  from  pain. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  153 

Why  did  she  deign  me  no  reply  ? 
The  soul  creeps  up  and  answers,  why? 
So  half  in  hope,  yet  half  afraid, 
I  stand  between  the  sun  and  shade, 
And  wonder-waiting  vigil  keep, 
With  sad  eyes  thrown  across  the  deep. 

Sweet  horn,  I'll  throw  your  clarion  note 
In  search  of  that  frail  golden  boat, 
And  may  your  silvery  footsteps  learn 
Companions  of  a  sweet  return. 
Thus  will  your  searching  notes  be  thrown, 

Sounds  horn. 

But  echo  answers  far  and  lone, 

Loon. 

And  o'er  the  lake  the  laughing  loon 
Makes  music  to  the  night's  high  noon, 
And  shattered  moonbeams  lift  and  ride 
Like  shining  spectres  on  the  tide. 

Sad,  sad  the  watch  that  waits  in  vain, 
And  loneliness  is  life  of  pain. 
Poor  eyes,  poor  eyes !  I  bid  you  rest, 
Sleep  wooes  the  circles  of  my  breast. 
Here  will  I  place  love's  beacon  light, 

Places  light. 

So,  like  a  star  to  pierce  the  night, 
That  it  may  prove  love's  faithful  guide, 
Alluring  to  my  phantom  bride, 
So  will  she  Qome  from  faint  and  far, 
Lured  by  this  love-watch  blazing  star. 


154  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Here  with  this  green  mound  for  my  bed, 
And  green  boughs  waving  overhead, 
All  trailed  with  rose-light  steeped  in  dew, 
And  woodbine  splendors  running  through, 
And  balm  to  dress  the  weary  soul 
Await  where  silvered  currents  roll, 
And  tinkling  music  falls,  a  dream 
Wooed  from  the  mountain's  tinsel'd  stream, 
The  night-bird's  song,  the  waiting  rose, 
The  waving  winds  will  bring  repose. 

Falls  asleep. 

Tinkle  of  stream.    Whippoorwill.    Faint  horn.     Loon  laughs.     Whip- 
poorwill.    Horn  nearer.    Faint  song.    Sound  of  oars  striking  boat. 

SONG -MY  WILLIE. 

My  Willie  lies  sleeping  beneath  the  green  tree. 
Blue  eyes  have  grown  weary  in  watching  for  me. 
The  fates  that  undo  him  did  bind  me  to  mourn, 
Yet  true  to  my  promise,  again  I  return. 

Chorus.— My  Willie  has  waited,  is  waiting  me  still, 

Where  love  drinks  the  music  of  sweet  whippoorwill. 

As  breath  of  the  summer  that  comes  all  unseen, 

With  garlands  of  roses,  love  brings  you  your  queen. 

An  angel's  glad  visit  from  Eden's  sweet  side, 

To  watch  o'er  your  slumbers,  your  sweet  phantom  bride. 

And  now,  gentle  Willie,  Ibid  you  adieu, 
This  wreath  will  bring  faith  that  my  promise  was  true, 
And  when  at  God's  calling  you  cross  the  dark  tide, 
You'll  meet  at  the  ferry  your  own  phantom  bride. 

Was  it  a  dream  ?  a  dream,  no,  no ! 
Did  she  not  stand  with  cheek  aglow 
And  bright  eyes  flaming  sweet  and  far, 
And  like  the  new  born  morning  star, 
Shine  on  me  with  her  warmth  of  love, 
And  tenderness, well  meant  to  move, 


THE   MISSIONARY.  155 

This  laggard  blood,  that  coursing  slow, 
Drags  onward  through  its  fields  of  snow. 
A  dream?  It  must  have  been  a  dream ! 

0  stars,  how  cold  and  far  you  seem  ! 
And  you,  sweet  moon,  how  can  you  hold 
A  brightness  in  these  rays  so  cold  ? 

1  shiver  at  the  thought,  and  still, 
You  sail  above  the  silent  hill, 

And  pour  your  cold  effulgence  wide 

Along  the  great  night's  ebbing  tide. 

Ah, what  is  this?  My  God,  'twas  true  ! 

Fresh  in  the  night's  new  fall  of  dew 

The  imprint  of  her  hand, 'tis  here  ! 

And  she  is  gone,  is  gone,  is  gone  !* 

And  not  the  wanders  of  the  dawn 

Will  bring  her  back  to  me,  to  me ! 

My  eyes,  my  eyes!  I  cannot  see,  I  cannot  see! 

I  hear  the  great,  dark  waters  roar — 

I'll  meet  her  on  the  other  shore. 

Falls  dead.          Curtain. 

Curtain  rises  again  on  tableau  of  their  meeting,  he  stepping  from  the 
dark  waters  to  her  embrace.    Golden  City  in  the  background. 


NECESSITY. 

Necessity  breeds  an  infallible  law, 
Let  all  to  her  statutes  resign, 

'Tis  only  to  fodder  the  way  of  a  jaw 
That  we  toil  for  the  wealth  of  a  mine. 


156  THE    MISSIONARY. 


UNKNOWN. 

Tread  lightly,  tis  a  hallowed  spot,  for  here,  beneath 

this  mound, 
The  bosom  of  a  soldier  brave,  lies  mingling  with  the 

ground. 
And  yonder,  see  !  the  stars  and  stripes,  the  flag  for 

which  he  fell, 
Waves  proudly  from  you  loftly  dome,   above  the 

village  bell. 
No  more,  he  hears  the  evening  gun,  plow  echoes 

through  the  air, 
Nor  hears  the  knell,  of  village  bell,   softly  calling 

unto  prayer, 
Or  deeply  toll,  departed  soul,  in  tones  of  wild  despair. 

Who  was  the  soldier?  did  yor  say?  didst  know  from 

whence  he  came  ? 
I  see  no  chisled  structure  here,  on  which,  to  read  his 

name, 
Ah  there  behold  !  and  half  decayed,  that  crumbling 

board  alone, 
Approach  and  read,  and  read,  alas,  that  weird  word 

unknown. 
Unknown  he  sleeps  that  earnest  sleep,  that  last  deep, 

deep,  repose, 
Regardless  quite  of  storm  or  night,  of  passing  joys 

or  woes, 
Of  folly's  frown,  or  fancy's  smile,  of  kindred,  friends 

or  foes. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  157 

When  cannon   mouthed  their  thunders  loud,   and 

hurled  their  wreathed  smoke, 
And  all  the  land  was  quaking  'neath  a  famous  sturdy 

stroke, 
And  gallant  hearts  rushed  forth  to  meet  the  haughty 

challenge  thrown, 
'Twas  then  the  sleeper  signed  the  call,  and  he  was 

not  unknown. 
No  more  he'll  list  the  sweet  tattoo  nor  reveille  at 

morn, 
No  more  he'll  tread  to  beat  of  drum,    or  pipe  of 

martial  horn, 
Nor  deal  a  stroke,   amid  the  smoke,   where  battle 

blaze  is  born. 

When  torrent  darts  of  crimson  gore  rushed  wildly 

down  the  rill, 
That  very  hill  where  yonder  gun  dark-browed,  is 

rusting  still — 
Mid  sabre  flash  and  battle  glare  and  deadly  missla 

thrown, 
This  sleeping  hero  too,  was  there,  and  he  was   not 

unknown. 
No  more  he'll  face  the  battle-blaze,  nor  drink  the 

smoke  of  war, 
No  more  he'll  tread  the  purpled  earth,  where  booming 

cannons  jar 
Nor  join  the  race,  inhaste  to  chase  a  foeman  flying  far. 

When  yonder  cannon  groaned  aloud,   and  lent  her 
poison  breath, 


158  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Sending  her  burning  messengers,  singing  the  song 

of  death, 

He  was  the  first  to  lend  a  hand  to  check  that  monotone, 
But  oh,  too  late,  her  future  fate,  was  sealed  unto  his 

own. 
No  more  his  willing  arm  is  lent  to  tear  the  blushing 

brand, 
From  out  t-he  fervid  battle-grasp  of   foeman's  firy 

hand, 
Nor  check  a  breath,  that's  sealing  death,  athwart  a 

sunny  land. 

If  yonder  tattered  flag  could  speak ;  'twould  tell  the 

tale,  I  ween, 
The  tale  that  we  woul  d  ask  of  him,  thus  stilled  in 

sleep  serene, 
Then,  this  half-rotted  board,   no  more,  in  broken 

speech  should  own, 
This  sad  reply,  to  questions  asked,  in  this  sad,  way  — 

unknown. 
No  more  he'll  feast  his  manly  eyes  upon  that  banner 

there, 
No  more  unfurl  her  gorgeous  dyes  to  freedom's  holy 

air, 
While  half  a  nation  kneels  around,  and  lifts  to  God 

a  prayer. 

That  cannon  yonder  on  the   hill,   is  stilled  forever 

more, 
And  gush  of  song  and  music  swell,   take  place  of 

battle  roar, 


THE    MISSIONARY.  159 

Peace  smiles,  her  sunny  beams  to  day  on  cottage 

walls  are  thrown, 
But,  he  who  died  to  wake  that  smile  lies  sleeping 

here,  unknown. 
Alone,  indeed,    and  left  unknown,  in  death's  cold 

grasp  alone — 

Not  e'en  the  honors  of  a  name  cut  on  the  coldest  stone, 
Hark  !  o'er  his  grave,  the  winds  complain,  unknown  ! 

unknown !  unknown  ! 

But  hush  !  the  winds  that  lately  moaned  have  ceased 

their  grievous  cries, 
And  yonder  comes  the  village  belle,   and  tears  are 

in  her  eyes. 
Her  hands  are  lain  with  wreathed  flowers,   that  on 

the  grave,  are  strewn, 
Thank  God  !  the  sleeper's  not  forgot  e'en  tho'  he  be 

unknown. 
Ah,  see  beside  the  lowly  mound,  the  maiden  kneels 

in  prayer ; 
And  lo,  a  hundred  more  draw  round,  their  proffered 

love  to  share; 
I  fancy  now,  that  sleeper  dreams  of  angels  circling 

there. 

Ah  I  ne'er  again  will  I  deplore  the  noble  soldier's 

lot; 
I'll  mourn  their  lonely  fates  no  more  —  they  never 

are  forgot, 
E'en  tho'  they  sleep  unnumbered  by  the  letters  of  a 


name 


160  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Their  burning  history  never  dies,   'tis  wreathed  in 

flowers  of  a  fame. 
We  read  it  in  the  peaceful  breeze  that  whisper  o'er 

the  vale, 
We  read  it  on  the  rolling  seas  where  bends  the  bellied 

sail, 
And  oh,  it  is  a  work  to  please,  a  nobly-written  tale. 

The  village  maiden  whispers  it  to  valliant  village 

beau, 
And  little  children  tell  the  tale  while  wandering  to 

and  fro, 
And  when  the  heavy  frost  of  years  have   marked 

our  honored  sires, 
They  lay  the  cherished  pipe  aside,  and  tell  it  round 

their  fires. 
And  so,  the  tender  story  stands  a  theme  of  endless 

thought, 
And  freedom  waves   her  gentle  hands   above   the 

glories  bought, 
While  soldiers  sleep  beneath  the  sands,   unknown, 

tho'  not  forgot. 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Alas !  how  vain  our  hallowed  hopes, 
How  wasted  time's  sweet  flowers, 

The  march  of  change  just  telescopes 
Our  fairest  build  of  bowers. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  161 

DANA'S  DKIYE. 

ORLANDO. 

Hold  hard  thy  reins,  yes  driver,  hold, 
And  thou  shalt  have  this  fee  of  gold, 
Ten  shining  twenties,  bright  and  new, 
And  this  green  bundle  goes  to  you, 
If  that  thine  elfin  steeds  shall  move 
To  win  a  hard,  far  race  for  love. 

DANA. 

If  moved  to  win  ?    And  who  shall  dare 
Match  steed  to  steed,  with  speed  compare? 
From  wild  Arabia's  arid  plain 
These  supple  queens  were  deftly  ta'en, 
And  not  the  fabled  steeds  of  Mars 
Can  match  my  bonny  Shooting  Stars. 

ORLANDO. 

Hold,  driver,  hold  !    Be  not  too  fast, 
(Blue  pigeons  may  outspeed  the  blast,) 
A  good  span  lead  of  tempest  wild 
The  Graylocks  flew,  the  driver  smiled, 
And  sowed  the  way  with  challenge  loud, 
And  still  the  steeds  outsped  the  cloud. 

Then  do  not  boast  of  better  blood, 
Of  course, 'tis  plainly  understood, 
At  viewing  shoulders  long,  oblique, 
And  tendons  strong,  and  coat  as  sleek 
As  glossy  silk  from  India's  strand, 
There  lies  uncommon  speed  at  hand. 


162  THE    MISSIONAKY. 

But  match  is  match  and  chase  is  chase, 
And  chance  alone  can  test  a  race 
Where  two  unwilling  bandies  meet, 
In  this  wild-wedded,  vain  conceit, 
Declaring  oft,  from  beaten  breast, 
Yet  fearing  to  approach  the  test. 

Doncaspan's  claims  are  verified, 
And  yours,  as  yet,  remain  untried, 
Unrighteous,  sir,  and  indiscreet, 
To  boast  your  chosen  steeds  as  fleet 
As  those  gray  kings,  whose  airy  forms 
Played  lead  before  the  worst  of  storms. 

DANA. 

If  that  thou  sayest  I  have  lied, 
Then,  too,  let  this  be  verified. 
Doncaspan's  claims  are  false,  as  yet, 
In  this  that  we  have  never  met. 
Which  sayest  thou,  then  thou  hast  lied, 
And  thou  and  he  shall  stand  defied. 

ORLANDO. 

Be  calm,  be  calm,  I  sought  the  test 
That  proves  an  honest  faith  the  best. 
Because  of  this,  my  life  must  go 
A  forfeit  to  impassioned  foe, 
If  that  miscarriage  should  attend 
That  speed  alone  could  dare  defend. 

DANA. 

Then  be  it  so.    In  proof  of  trust 
Graylocks  and  Lords  shall  eat  the  dust 


THE    MISSIONARY.  163 

Up-thrown  from  each  clean  hoof  like  hail, 
Shot  downward  from  high  clouds  a-sail. 
But  tell  me,  friend,what  goes  amiss 
To  force  the  search  of  speed  like  this. 

ORLANDO. 

Ah,  truly,  friend,  but  first  thine  hand. 
'Tis  meet  that  thou  shouldst  understand 
The  import  of  this  fearful  task. 
Kneel,  kneel  with  me  and  blessings  ask, 
And  kneeling,  swear  with  hand  on  high, 
In  faith  of  trust  to  do  or  die. 

DANA. 

'Tis  well,  my  friend,  and  I  accede. 
Lord,  dost  Thou  know  our  waiting  need, 
And  wilt  Thou  bless,  O  Lord,  the  right 
This  effort  leads  unto  Thy  sight. 
With  lifted  hands,  O  Lord, we  wait, 
Sworn  friends,  whatever  be  our  fate. 

ORLANDO. 

So  shalt  thou  hear,  and  this  the  tale: 
Where  yonder  sea-gulls  lift  and  sail 
On  wings  of  white,  above  the  shore 
That  trembles  where  the  waters  roar, 
Doncaspan's  bronze  and  marble  home 
Lifts  lofty  battlements  and  dome. 

There,  by  dark  jealousies  controlled, 
A  birdling  in  a  cage  of  gold, 
Luena  Doncaspan  must  dwell 
An  angel  in  an  outer  hell, 


164  'fHE    MISSIONARY. 

Far  from  love's  altar-home  apart 
So  far,  so  far,  poor  breaking  heart ! 

DANA. 

You  love.     Does  she  reciprocate 
That  love,  and  yet  not  dare  to  mate 
That  fading  heart  with  the  support 
That  hails  from  love's  almighty  court? 
Go  to  thine  fading  flower  and  say 
Light  shines  adown  love's  dewy  way. 

Say  that  my  Arab  steeds  are  fleet , 
The  lightning  of  their  flying  feet 
Would  quickly  dare  an  intercede 
Conveyant  to  love's  prisoned  need. 
Once  safe  behind  my  Shooting  Stars 
Then  could  she  laugh  at  prison  bars. 

/  ORLANDO. 

Ah,  but  I  fear  the  Graylocks'  pace, 
Mad,  mad  must  be  that  mighty  race. 
For  like  an  arrow  skyward  tossed, 
The  oval  downs  they  shoot  across, 
And  woe  and  death  would  surely  hide 
Within  each  mighty  monster  stride. 

DANA. 

To  win  is  life,  to  lose  is  death, 
And  thou  couldst  choose  it  at  a  breath, 
Didst  thou  but  know  all  hope  were  dead, 
And  each  availing  help  had  fled. 
So  stake  thy  trust  to  win  it  all, 
Or,  losing,  to  abide  the  fall. 


THE    MISSIONAKY.  165 

ORLANDO. 

'Tis  done,  'tis  done  !  thy  hand,  thy  plan, — 

Yes,  I  will  meet  it,  yes,  my  man. 

Thy  word  shall  be  my  law  to  win 

Or  lose,  the  effort  is  no  sin, 

And  life  is  death  without  compare 

Enshrouded  in  this  black  despair. 

DANA. 

Go  to  thine  haughty  peer  and  read, 
One  dares  to  doubt  the  Gray  lock's  speed; 
And  further  says  his  ringing  purse 
Invites  him  to  some  chosen  course, 
On  hilly  down  or  dustless  square, 
At  any  time  and  anywhere. 

Say  that  his  pride  has  reached  a  stress 
Of  wagers  offered  limitless. 
Say  that  his  taunting  tongue  has  said 
Were  wagers  laid,  both  gold  and  bread, 
Thou  must  go  penniless,  a  knave, 
Undone  and  hungered  to  thy  grave. 

And  if  to  him  this  arrogance 
Shall  lift  its  stinging  poisoned  lance, 
Swift  as  the  rush  of  ocean's  tide 
Shall  crowd  the  armies  of  his  pride, 
And  eagle-like,  in  passion  stirred, 
Lay  wagers  to  your  suited  word. 

Say  quickly  "For  Luena's  sake, 
This  daring  proffer  will  I  make. 


166  THE    MISSIONARY. 

A  test  of  speed  shall  sure  decide 
A  forfeit  head  or  fondling  bride. 
If  Graylocks  win  this  head  be  thine; 
Lose,  and  Luena  must  be  mine." 
ORLANDO. 

'Tis  done  !  thy  hand.     I  do  abide 

This  ruling  whatsoe'er  betide. 

And  when  the  white  moon  lifts  her  sail 

Above  the  level  of  this  vale, 

I  too,  in  shining  robe  will  wait 

Beside  the  star-arched  marble  gate. 

There  lightly  lift  above  the  wall 
Love's  light-toned,  airy,  legal  call, 
That  ever  brings  with  speedy  tread, 
Soft  on  the  star-grass  jewelled  bed, 
That  lithesome  form  so  rare,  so  rare, 
My  bonny,  bright  Luena  fair. 

Yes,  she  will  come,  poor  waiting  bird, 
Like  aspen  sweet,  by  breezes  stirred, 
All  tremblingly,  yet  all  demure. 
In  confidence  both  sweet  and  sure, 
I'll  breathe  it  to  her  trusting  ear 
And  lock  the  bargain,  tear  for  tear. 
DANA. 

Farewell  till  then,  a  sweet  adieu, 
God's  tender  mercies  follow  you. 
And  may  the  goddess  of  your  love 
In  glad  adoption  quick  approve 


THE    MISSIONARY.  167 

A  purpose  lain  in  mercy's  mood, 
And  sure  avoid  of  spilling  blood. 

For  by  yon  stars,  now  lent  to  crown 
The  shadows  of  this  dewy  down, 
One  eager  call  will  show  thee  pace 
Defiant  in  the  fleetest  race. 
One  eager  call, — away,  away  ! 
Prepare  thee  ere  the  break  of  day. 


SCENE  SECOND. 

Castle  on  seashore,  surrounded  by  massive  high  walls.  Massive  star- 
arched  gates,  green  lawn  and  shell-road  driveways,  boat  at  shore 
bordering  lawn  and  light  swells  rolling  in  the  moonlight. 

ORLANDO. 

Here  at  this  hugh  unfriendly  gate, 
All  eager  and  alone  I  wait. 
Scarce  daring  lift  one  little  note, 
That  trustless  winds  may  drive  afloat 
To  some  unsought,  unkindly  ear, 
Disclosure  of  my  presence  here. 

How  still  the  night,  I  fairly  start 
At  sound  of  my  own  beating  heart, 
Unsteady  in  its  wild  unrest, 
It  treads  the  chambers  of  the  breast, 
As  some  lost  child,  misunderstood, 
Wood  walk  the  mazes  of  the  wood. 

Yet,  there  is  need  of  haste,  and  so, 
However  falls  the  final  blow, 


168  THE    MISSIONARY. 

The  battle  is  before  us  still ; 
And  through  the  courage  of  a  will, 
Unbending  in  its  strength  of  pride, 
Can  reason's  claims  be  justified. 

Luena,  here  I  send  the  call 
High  o'er  this  dark  impregnant  wall, 
And  for  thine  blessed  answer  wait 
The  swinging  of  this  massive  gate, 
Thy  presence,  O  thou  child  of  light, 
Queen  jewel  of  Time's  fairest  night. 

Sounds  horn. 
LUENA  at  window. 

Ah,  did  I  hear  Orlando's  call, 

Some  wayward  note  has  climbed  the  wall. 

Some  wayward  note  has  rode  the  tide 

Of  breezes  from  the  outer  side. 

Ah,  there  again,  and  light  and  free 

Love's  tender  notes  are  calling  me. 

Climbing- from  window  on  ladder  of  rope  which  she  throws;  standing 
on  rope  steps  with  hand  on  window-sill  she  listens/  Horn  sounds. 
Luena  listens  smilingly,  then  sings,  sweet  and  low, 

I  hear  the  horn,  I  hear  the  horn. 

From  gardens  green,  where  dews  adorn, 

"Pis  sweet  to  me.'tis  sweet  to  me, 

I  hear  the  horn,  I  come  to  thee. 

ORLANDO. 

Yes  thou  art  come,  but  say,  rny  dear, 
How  shall  it  please  thine  waiting  ear, 
This  proffered  plan  that  pending  fate 
Prevaileth  that  I  must  relate, 
Well  dost  thou  know,  Luena  fair, 
To  win  thee,  death  were  naught  to  dare. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  169 

LUENA. 

A  dare  at  death  !  O  love,  sweet  love ! 
Sure  as  yon  shining  stars  above, 
My  heart  would  break,  oh,  surely  break, 
If  that  thou  darest  for  my  poor  sake, 
That  ebon  king  whose  nightly  eyes 
Rob  earth  of  love's  dear  paradise. 

ORLANDO. 

Have  patience,  love,  I  beg  the  boon, 
Let  judgment  come  not  over-soon, 
Weigh  every  word  and  weigh  it  well, 
'Tis  not  that  I  have  much  to  tell, 
But  that  an  import  deep  is  stirred 
And  crowned  with  each  succeeding  word. 

LUENA. 

You  spoke  of  death,  of  daring  death! 
O  love,  my  love,  my  life,  ray  breath ! 
All,  all  to  me;  and  yet  so  light 
You  speak  of  it.     O  love,  to-night, 
With  lifted  hands  I  do  complain, 
Breathe  not  those  awful  words  again. 

ORLANDO. 

Have  courage  love,  this  flighty  mood, 
Tells  lightly  of  brave  womanhood. 
Well  dost  thou  know  that  life  to  me, 
Tied  in  this  shame-bound  slavery, 
Doles  double  sin,  and  double  shame, 
Death's  portion  to  a  living  name. 


170  THE  MISSIONARY. 

LTJENA. 

'Tis  plain,  'tis  plain,  dear  love,  'tis  so, 
But  couldst  thou  deal  more  drops  of  woe? 
One  added  grain  methinks  could  part 
This  ready  strained  and  bleeding  heart ; 
Yet  is  it  thine,  and  for  thy  sake 
E'en  would  I  suffer  it  to  break. 

ORLANDO. 

Nay,  darling,  nay,  I  would  not  call 
Your  life  to  taste  one  bitter  gall, 
But  that  I  feel,  beyond  the  cross 
Of  this  commix  of  gold  and  dross, 
There  shines  supreme,  a  brighter  gem, 
Life's  free-born  love-lit  diadem. 

LUENA. 

Then  be  it  so,  my  heart  shall  move 
To  meet  true  liberty  of  love, 
And  sayest  thou,  I  too  will  try, 
E'en  tho'  it  stand  to  death's  defy, 
To  reach  that  new-born  outer  gate 
Where  loving  hearts  unbridled  mate. 

ORLANDO. 

Then  be  it  plain,  thou  givest  heed, 
Thy  parent  dotes  the  Graylocks'  speed, 
And  banters  oft,  with  purse  a-gleam, 
To  match,  for  speed,  that  kingly  team 
'Gainst  all  the  world  of  flyers  bold 
For  pride  or  place  or  pelf  of  gold. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  171 

LUENA. 

Aye,  true  indeed,  but  sad  the  breast 
That  meets  that  proffer  with  a  test. 
No  swifter  does  the  eagle  chase 
The  flying  dove  to  death's  embrace, 
Nor  lighter  does  the  great  gazelle, 
Spring  forward  at  the  panther's  yell. 

ORLANDO. 

Brave,  noble  steeds,  indeed  'tis  so, 
And  yet,  alas  their  pace  is  slow 
Compared  with  Dana's  hold  in  hands, 
Led  from  Arabia's  shining  sands, 
Led  from  that  field  no  limit  binds, 
And  reared  among  the  sporting  winds. 

To-day  their  lifted  muzzles  stood 
Expansive  to  the  proof  of  blood ; 
And  from  their  eyes  all  deep  and  bright, 
There  shone  a  sweet,  translucent  light, 
That  told  in  language  fair  as  love, 
An  airyness  in  every  move. 

And  to  thy  parent,  Doncaspan, 
I  dare  propose  this  daring  plan: 
Five  sunny  leagues  my  head  to  pay, 
If  that  the  Gray  locks  win  the  day; 
If  that  they  fail  thus  fairly  tried, 
Then  shall  Luena  be  my  bride. 

LUENA. 

Orlando,  no  !  my  poor  heart's  cry, 
Then  surely  art  thou  doomed  to  die. 


172  THE    MISSIONARY. 

For  like  the  whirlwind's  awful  speed 
I  see  the  Graylocks  easy  lead, 
Nor  urgent  word  nor  whip  can  save 

My  darling  from  the  gaping  grave. 
t 

ORLANDO. 

But  thou  hast  said  thou  wouldst  abide 
The  test,  tho'  death  should  stand  defied. 
And  this  the  test,  my  sweet,  my  brave, 
Yet  know  you  that  no  gaping  grave, 
Shall  ever  hold  Orlando's  breast 
In  payment  of  this  subtle  test. 

LUENA. 

Then  be  it  so,  your  brave  content 
Lifts  hope  a  shining  monument, 
And  tho'  my  heart  a  double  throws, 
No  longer  shall  my  lips  oppose, 
But  yielding  all,  your  wish  abide,' 
And  win  or  perish  at  your  side. 
OKLANDO. 

O  brave  resolve,  with  naught  amiss, 
Love,  let  us  seal  it  with  a  kiss ! 
Once,  twice  and  thrice  !  and  now  away  ! 
See,  yonder  creeps  the  breaking  day ! 
The  banners  of  the  night  half-drawn 
In  honor  of  the  blushing  dawn. 

Go  tender  love,  the  hour  of  ten 
Shall  find  me  at  the  gate  again, 
With  loud  proclaim  and  vaunting  mien, 


THE    MISSIONARY.  173 

And  banner  on  whose  page  is  seen 
In  flaming  type  that  all  may  read 
"One  dares  to  doubt  the  Graylocks'  speed." 

Adieu,  adieu,  till  then  good-bye. 
And  dost  thou  hear  the  rabble  cry, 
Be  not  disposed  to  harbor  fear, 
But  rather  court  content  and  cheer. 
One  long  embrace  and  thou  must  go, 
Love,  love,  why  dost  thou  linger  so? 

LUENA. 

One  sweet  embrace,  the  night  is  past. 
Orlando,  this  may  be  our  last. 
Last  fond  embrace !  O  love,  I  fear, 
Chide  not  the  sob,  the  falling  tear, 
The  grief,  the  grief,  so  darkly  dres't 
And  crowned  against  my  heaving  breast. 

But  no !  I  scorn  the  bitter  sting, 
By  yonder  stars  yet  left  to  swing 
Like  diamonds  in  the  fading  blue, 
I  will  be  brave  !  I  will  be  true  ! 
God  helping  me — God  helping  you, 
Alway,  alway,  fond  love,  adieu. 

ORLANDO. 

Gone,  she  is  gone  as  sweet  stars  die, 
In  the  blazing  reach  of  the  morning  sky, 
And  the  ghostly  tread  of  the  solitude, 
Steals  like  a  gloom  to  the  heart  imbued 
With  a  holy  love  and  a  holy  will, 
That  cannot  die  till  the  heart  is  still. 


174  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Sings. 

Love  will  not  die, 
The  shadows  fly, 

As  vultures  sail  the  dreamy  sky; 
But  brave  and  true. 
Forever  new, 

Love  sails  on  high,  love  will  not  die. 

« 

Love  will  not  die,  nor  is  it  meet 
That  love  should  cringe  and  own  defeat. 
And  not  the  claim  of  better  blood 
Shall  lift  to  me  a  scaleless  flood  ; 
And  not  defense  of  lofty  tower 
Persuade  me  from  my  chosen  flower. 

Not  vain  conceit  and  arrogance 

Shall  stay  love's  keen  and  glittering  lance 

And  soon  this  shameful  court  shall  learn 

How  bravely  true  love's  altars  burn. 

Doncaspan  stand  in  shame  defied 

Or  prove  the  mettle  of  his  pride. 

SCENE  THIRD. 

Large  gate  swung  open  exposing;  interior  of  courtyard;  fine  court,  front 
high  porch ;  circle  roadway  in  front.  Orlando  on  horseback  :it  gate. 

ORLANDO. 

A  passing  proof  —  a  lucky  star, 
This  massive  gate  swung  wide  ajar; 
And  not  one  halting  guard  is  near 
To  challenge  rights  or  interfere. 
This  taunting  flag  I'll  carry  o'er, 

Waves  flag. 

And  flaunt  it  squarely  at  the  door. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  175 

This  trespass  horn  shall  call  the  court, 
That  all  may  figure  in  the  sport. 

Sounds  horn. 

All  honor,  sir,  and  due  respect, 
I  hope  your  highness  don't  object 
The  reading  this,  a  trifle  thing 
Stamped  on  the  banner  that  I  bring. 

Crowd  gathering,  each  reading,  then  all  in  concert  loudly :  «•  One  dares 
to  doubt  the  Graylocks'  speed.    Hurrah,  hurrah,  hurrah!" 

DONCASPAN. 

Thou  art  a  cur  to  thus  report 
Before  Doncaspan's  royal  court. 
Avaunt,  I  say  !  avaunt,  avaunt ! 
Nor  dare  again  this  dastard  taunt. 
Thou  bigot  of  un titled  blood, 
Misguided  and  misunderstood. 

ORLANDO. 

No  idle  words !  my  purse  is  long, 
And  dangled  where  your  courtants  throng. 
Look !  here  I  swing  the  shining  prize 
Plain-viewed  before  your  jealous  eyes, 
And  laugh  ha  ha  !  with  flag  a-sail 
To  see  your  mighty  lordship  quail. 

DONCASPAN. 

Uncanny  cur!  that  lying  tongue 
Is  longer  than  the  purse  you  swung. 
And  think  you  one  would  saddle  horse 
For  that  slim,  lean,  lackworthy  purse, 
Not  e'en  the  poorest  of  my  court 
Would  cavil  to  such  meagre  sport. 


176  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Crowd :  No,  no,  no !  ho,  ho  1 
ORLANDO. 

Then  thou  wouldst  shun  the  proffered  dust? 
And  perched  above  pride's  hollow  bust 
Seek  comfort  in  this  childish  claim, 
Supported  by  chagrin  and  shame. 
Ah,  troubled  heart,  this  frail  devise 
Tells  plainly  of  your  cowardice. 

DONCASPAN. 

Horse, horse,  I  say!  let  there  be  lain 
Some  wager  worthy  of  the  pain. 
And  by  St.  Martin's  lofty  throne, 
This  dancing  braggart  soon  shall  own 
Doncaspan's  claims  well  qualified, 
And  ample  in  support  of  pride. 

Name,  name  thy  wager,  silly  dude, 
And  no  imposing  after-lude 
Shall  stand  in  flippant  banter  dressed, 
Delayal  of  an  unrighteous  test. 
Thy  choice,  I  say  !  the  banter  done  ! 
From  furrow's  length  to  falling  sun. 

Court:  Aye,  aye,  aye !  from  furrow's  length  to  falling  sun.  Hurrah  I 
ORLANDO. 

Five  sunny  leagues  I  do  indite, 

And  thou  thyself  shall  choose  the  sight, 

On  oval  down  or  level  plain, 

Or  where  the  woodland's  break  and  train, 

With  light  and  shade  alternate  blent 

On  rolling  hill,  or  deep  descent. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  177 

DONCASPAN. 

In  woodland  ?  O  ho,  ho  !  to  hide 
The  shamyness  of  shapeless  stride. 
Enough!  the  broad  plains  beaten  breast, 
Shall  own  the  honor  of  the  test, 
That  each  invited  guest  shall  see 
How  Graylocks'  spurn  their  company. 

And  now,  in  presence  of  this  court, 
Name,  fool,  the  wager  for  the  sport, 
Assured  in  aught  thy  lips  may  prate, 
There  is  no  bond  of  rich  estate, 
Or  pile  of  gold  or  silver  plied 
That  unto  thee  shall  be  denied. 

ORLANDO. 

Enough!  let  each  surrounding  guest, 
Place  quiet  hand  upon  the  breast, 
And  all  thine  grand  courtierian  train 
Bear  witness  of  the  wager  lain, 
And  silent  sacredness  approve 
A  wager  unto  death  for  love. 

Five  sunny  leagues,  the  falling  bars 
To  drop  before  proud  Dana's  Stars, 
This  proffered  head  must  surely  go 
A  forfeit  to  a  winning  foe  — 
Be  they  the  first  to  cross  the  line, 
Doncaspan's  daughter  must  be  mine. 

DONCASPAN. 

'Tis  done,  'tis  done !  and  very  good, 
At  sundown  dogs  shall  lick  thy  blood. 


178  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Poor  fishy  knave,  no  more  thou'lt  stand, 
In  cavil  for  my  daughter's  hand; 
No  more  disgrace  your  doubty  peers 
With  mimicry  of  love-lorn  tears. 

ORLANDO. 

Hold !  rein  thy  steeds  and  to  the  test. 
Who  laughs  the  last  he  laughs  the  best, 
And  let  not  braggart  tongue  decide 
Ere  half  the  test  be  verified. 
Proud  Dana's  Stars  will  play  thee  haste 
Ere  thou  hast  seen  the  barway  past. 

DONCASPAN. 

One  circuit  league,  returning  five, 
'Tis  but  the  Graylocks'  warming  drive. 
Horse !  horse,  I  say  !     See  Dana's  rein 
Comes  westward  on  the  waiting  plain, 
And  I  am  ready,  lead  the  way, 
And  let  the  dancing  bugles  play. 

Curtain.  Sbund  of  bugles  and  cheers, 

LUENA. 

Already  at  the  rein  they  stand, 
And  lifted  cheers  on  every  hand 
Break  from  the  lusty  rabble  glee, 
In  concourse  of  mad  haste  to  see 
This  romance  of  a  law,  decide 
Death's  dusky  fate,  or  dewy  bride. 

O  sad  indeed  !  love  brings  to  me 

This  soul-felt  sense  of  agony, 

This  deep  untamed  and  tireless  brood 


TBE    MISSIONARY.  179 

Of  tortures  and  that  darker  mood, 
With  swift  wings  waving  everywhere 
Their  great  black  banners  of  despair. 

O  could  I  dash  this  cup  aside, 
And  shall  that  dusky  hand  divide 
My  love  and  I?     God  grant  it  not ! 
Love,  love  is  sweet,  and  lowly  lot 
Or  lofty  line  'tis  yet  the  same 
In  spite  of  pride  or  purse  or  name. 

ORLANDO. 

Luena  haste,  e'en  now  await, 
Before  the  undrawn  barrier  gate, 
Fierce  eyeing  and  fierce  eyed  they  stand 
In  waiting  for  the  wished  command, 
Both  eager  for  the  testive  pace, 
Both  sanguine  of  the  day  and  race. 

One  moment  and  the  gong  will  sound, 
Come  let  us  gain  some  lofty  ground, 
Some  place  where  anxious  eyes  may  learn, 
At  viewing  each  successive  turn, 
If  that  the  fates  shall  weave  us  bloom 
Or  win  Orlando  for  the  tomb. 

SCENE  FOURTH. 

At  the  coarse  horn  music,  at  rise  of  curtain,  music  stops,  crowd  cheers, 
teams  are  in  waiting  before  draw-gate.  Judge  speaks. 

JUDGE. 

Rein  your  chargers  here  and  wait 
Close  before  the  barrier  gate. 


180  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Once  it  makes  tKe  hurried  slide, 
Other  trials  are  denied. 
Take  the  warning,  heed  it  well, 
Lest  you  tarry,  grief  to  tell. 

Steady  there  !  at  tap  of  gong 
Let  the  barrier  quick  be  sprung, 
Not  a  waver  waits  in  this, 
Not  a  shade  of  aught  amiss. 
Are  you  ready  ?     Signal  ho  ! 
Gray  locks  lead — I  knew  it  so. 
LUENA. 

Orlando,  it  is  done,  O  fly  ! 
Love  cannot  yield  thee  up  to  die. 
No,  no,  indeed  —  that  awful  pace  — 
Yain,  vain  were  Dana's  bootless  chase. 
See  how  they  come  with  necks  a-bow, 
Swift  as  the  darting  glazier  throw. 

RABBLE. 

They  come,  they  come,  O  mighty  speed  ! 
And  see,  the  Gray  locks  easy  lead. 
See, see  them  fly  — that  maddened  pace! 
Aye,  surely  this  the  Gray  locks'  race  ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah !  for  Doncaspan ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah  !  for  horse  and  man  ! 
ORLANDO. 

I  see  them,  yes,  and  they  are  gone 
Like  shadows  on  the  dappled  dawn. 
And  tho'  the  Graylocks  steady  lead, 


THE    MISSIONARY.  181 

I  know  there  lies  reserve  of  speed, 
And  that  the  race,  will  not  be  won 
Until  each  travailed  inch  is  done. 

BABBLE. 

Ah,  here  again,  O  mighty  run  ! 
Already  have  the  Graylocks  won, 
Full  half  a  furlong  leading  now, 
See  Caspan  lift  his  hat  and  bow ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  for  Dancaspan ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  for  horse  and  man  I 
LUENA. 

More  speedy  than  wild  pigeons  fly, 
And  will  that  awful  pace  not  die  ? 
No,  no  sweet  love,  it  cannot  be! 
Fly  darling,  you  are  all  to  me  ! 
And  surely,  flight  alone  can  save 
Orlando  from  the  gaping  grave. 

RABBLE. 

They  come,  they  come,  stand,  stand  away  I 
See  how  their  flaming  nostrils  play, 
Light  urging  now,  they  run  at  will. 
And  Dana  trailing  farther  still. 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  for  Doncaspan  ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  for  horse  and  man  I 

OELANDO. 

Then  be  it  so,  and  dust  to  dust, 
Orlando  will  not  fly  his  trust. 
No,  not  for  gold  !  and  not  for  fear, 
And  not  for  love,  no,  no,  my  dear, 


182  THE    MISSIONARY. 

For  love  would  die  degraded  so 
Nay  darling,  do  not  ask  me  go. 

RABBLE. 

Hail,  hail,  they  come,  they  come ! 
And  leading  still,  are  nearing  home; 
One  lingering  league,  the  game  is  sure. 
See  how  the  mighty  kings,  endure, 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  for  horse  and  man  ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  for  Doncaspan ! 

LTJENA, 

Ah,  what  is  this?  the  rabble  scream, 
Orlando,  can  it  be  a  dream  ? 
See!  Dana  calls  with  lifting  rein, 
And  as  the  lightening  speeds  the  plain 
They  shoot  along  the  oval  crest 
And  reach  the  Graylocks,  breast  to  breast, 

ORLANDO. 

Doncaspan  calls  each  noble  son, 
But  no,  alas,  their  race  is  done. 
Is  done,  for  sooth,  they  went  amiss 
In  matching  such  a  pace  as  this. 
Now  Dana  calls,  and  like  a  star, 
They  shoot  electrical  and  far. 

Well  art-  thou  named,  O  Shooting  Stars. 
Full  well  beyond  the  draw-gate  bars. 
And  all  the  court  full  satisfied 
To  yield  Orlando's  chosen  bride. 
Hear  how  the  changeful  rabble  cries, 
Orlando  wins  a  prize,  a  prize! 


THE    MISSIONARY.  183 

RABBLE. 

Hurrah,  hurrah,  he  wins  the  day  I 
Orlando  wins  the  Queen  of  May  ! 
And  Dana  with  his  subtle  plan, 
Wins  laurels  for  both  horse  and  man. 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  for  Dana's  plan  ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  for  horse  and  man! 

DONCASPAN. 

Ring  out  the  bells,  and  call  a  feast, 
And  sound  the  tocsin  west  and  east, 
For  here  to  all  the  court  I  say, 
To-morrow  be  their  wedding  day, 
And  duly  in  that  hour  of  pride, 
Doncaspan  first  shall  kiss  the  bride. 

Go  deck  the  court  with  trappings  well, 
And  hang  the  sweet-tongued  floral  bell; 
Bring  buds  of  May,  and  berries  red, 
To  hang  above  each  cherished  head, 
And  lay  with  carpets  fresh  and  meet, 
Reposure  for  the  wayward  feet. 

Bring  harpers  too,  and  shining  horn, 
And  let  the  notes  of  love  be  borne 
Till  each  succeeding  breeze  shall  sing 
All  hail  to  love  !  that  loyal  king. 
And  every  heart  shall  lift  and  move, 
And  mingle  with  the  mists  of  love. 

RABBLE. 

Hurrah,  hurrah,  for  Doncaspan  ! 
The  loser  is  the  wiixning  man, 


184  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Long  may  he  live  and  long  approve, 
The  nuptial  rites  of  holy  love ! 


SCENE  FIFTH. 

Interior  palace  hall,  beautifully  festooned  with  flowers.  Large  floral- 
bell  hangs  over  center  circled  seats,  court  officials  and  so  .each  offl 
cer  holds  beautiful  scepter  wreathed  with  flowers,  and  so  minister 
with  open  Bible  standing  near,  as  if  just  having  performed  mar 
riage  ceremony,  of  Luena  and  Orlando  who  stand  under  floral  bell, 
Doncaspan  steps  up  and  puts  their  hands  together  then  lay  a  hand 
on  each  head  and  bids  welcome, 

DONCASPAN. 

So,  hand  in  hand,  the  work  is  done. 
And  welcome  thou  my  daughter,  son, 
Well  hast  thou  earned  the  prize,  my  boy, 
Take  thy  reward,  'twill  bring  thee  joy. 
Doncaspan's  home  is  thine,  and  thou 
His  legal  son  by  marriage  vow. 

Go  valet,  go,  and  Dana  bring! 

And  these  shall  crown  him  "driver  king;" 

For,  by  his  shrewd  unerring  way, 

Orlando  won  the  fateful  day. 

So  is  he  crowned,  so  all  report, 

To  this  assembly  of  the  court. 

Glasses  are  served  for  a  toast. 

1st  Toast  — All  honor  to  Doncaspau's  son! 
2nd  Toast—  All  honor  to  the  bride  new  won ! 
3rd  Toast  —  AH  honor  to  proud  Dana's  rein! 
4th  Toast  —  Doncaspan  leading  all  the  train ! 
Court  — lifting  glasses  — hurrah!  hurrah!  hurrah! 

To  finish  with  song  by  the  court  or  a  dance  as  best  suits  players. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  185 

BEADED  WINE. 

O  beads  of  the  wine,  ye  are  fabulous  fine, 

Like  a  morn  in  its  rosiest  hours ; 
And  ye  spring  to  my  wish,  like  a  spirit  divine, 
And  ye  dance  on  the  brow  of  the  rubicund  wine. 

Like  the  queen  of  a  dew  upon  flowers. 

And  I  bathe  my  hot  lids,  in  the  amber  that  dips, 

To  a  mouth  duly  studded  with  pearl ; 
And  I  dream  of  the  rose  where  the  honey-bee  sips, 
And  I  dream  of  the  bloom  of  the  peach  upon  lips 
As  I  drink  to  the  health  of  iny  girl. 

O  sweet,  nectar  sweet !  and  I  drink,  and  repeat, 

'Tis  a  draught  that  I  duly  prefer ; 
Then  I  pause  and  repeat  —  'tis  deceit,  all  deceit; 
And  I  ween  my  true-love  would  not  deem  it  were 
meet 

Did  I  love  the  wine  better  than  her. 


NEW  STARS. 

See  yonder  banner  lift  and  play  above  the  latticed 

dome 
And  stars  new  found  but  yesterday,  have  made  it's 

field  their  home. 

The  soft  winds  sigh  around  it's  mast,  and  through 
its  folds  is  run, 


186  THE    MISSIONARY. 

In  'crostic   charm,    of   tender   cast,    the   name  of 
Washington. 

Not  woven  of  one  tinseled  thread ,  to  glimmer  through 

the  light, 
And  die  at  eve,  as  day  is  dead,  mcurtained  by  the 

night ; 
But  woven  of  that  fadeless  fame, that  shineth  high 

and  far, 
In  memories  that  view  the  jname  in  every  shining 

star. 

Our  Washington,  we  breathe  it  loud,  and  quick  the 
heart  replies, 

As  thunder  trolls  the  waiting  cloud  that  wings  the 

the  summer  s£ies. 

O  bless  the  flag !  our  father  still,  for  centuries  to  come, 
On  every  crowning  height   and   hill   in    freedom's 

spacious  home. 

We  hear  the  trouble-dins  of  war  sweep  down  the  ages 

long, 
Then  from  the  tented  fields  afar  we  hear  the  freedom 

song. 
And  from  the  distance  leading  forth   from   summit 

high,  and  crag, 
From  Mexico  to  mystic  north  we  meet  the  starry  flag. 

How  like  an  angel  winging  fair  to  all  the  winds  that 

rise ; 
The  depth  of  ocean-blue  is  there  —  the  baldric's  of 

the  skies, 


THE    MISSIONARY.  187 

The  crimson  of  the  blushing  morn,  and  in  its  folding 

net, 
Among  the.  shining  stars  is  born  —  the  name    of 

Lafayette. 

<jo  bring  the  child  of  tender  years,    and  tune  the 

harp  anew, 
And  warp  of  song,  and  woof  of  tears,  be  mingled 

with  the  blue; 
Till,  tender  hearts,  for  freedom's  sake,   shall  reach 

and  play  their  part; 
Such  stainless  hands  are  fit  to  take  that  banner  to 

the  heart. 

Yes,  lead  the  little  children  there,   close    by    oui 

country's  pride, 
And  tell  them  how  and  when  and  where— its  brave 

defenders  died. 
For  it  is  meet  that  these  should  know  the  golden 

reasons  why  — 
A  nation's  loving  hands  should  throw  that  banner  to 

the  sky. 

Ood  bless  the  flag !  a  nation's  trust  grows  stronger, 

day  by  day, 

And  long  above  the  sleeping  dust  of  ages  yet  to  play. 
Still  may  our  children's  children  come,   with  steps 

that  never  kg, 
And  wave  around  love's  shininghome  —  our  country's 

starry  flag. 


188  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Long  may  she  wave !  O,  blessed  boon  from  love  to 

valor  given, 
Till  all  the  weaving  winds  shall  croon  thanksgiving 

unto  heaven; 
Till  each  celestial  star  shall  shine  like  those  in  summer 

skies, 
And  weave  above  the  rocking  brine  like  joys   of 

paradise. 

Lord,  unto  thee  our  faces  turn,  with  tender  praises 

sown, 
And  while  each  faithful  heart  shall    burn    beside 

thine  altar-stone, 
Do  thou,  O  Father,  bless  us    still,    for    thou    alone 

can  bless — 
And  hold   a   nation's   fevered    will    in    ways    of 

righteousness. 


DAVE. 

Many  times  has  the  author  of  this  little  sketch,  when  a  boy,  sat  by  the 
good  old  grandmother  (the  own  mother  of  Dave)  and  heard  her  tell 
of  incidents  happening  in  time  of  the  Old  Revolutionary  War,  and 
•f  which  she  was  an  eye  witness.  The  old  lady  was  "Mohawk 
Dutch,"  and  alwaj  s  appeared  quite  proud  of  her  ancestry.  She 
died  at  the  ripe  old  age  of  one  hundred  years  and  twelve  days. 
Dave,  the  one  spoken  of  in  this  little  sketch,  was  one  of  the  early 
settlers  of  Wisconsin.  He  located  north  of  Milwaukee  in  the  heavy 
timber,  and  was  widely  known  throughout  that  section  as  the 
best  rifle  shot  in  the  state,  and  one  of  the  most  charitable  men 
living.  Being  of  a  very  sociable  disposition  he  was  familiarly 
dubbed  Dave  by  both  old  and  young,  a  manner  of  greeting  that 
always  pleased  him  best,  and  is  continued  in  even  to  this  very 
time,  when  he  has  reached  the  age  of  seventy-one  years.  He  is  yet 


THE    MISSIONARY.  189 

hearty  and  more  than  a  match  for  many  of  the  younger  men  of 
the  time. 

They  called  him  Dave,  and  who  is  Dave  ? 

A  queer  conundrum,  that  you  gave, 

Why,  nearly  every  one  knows  Dave ! 

Do  you  an  introduction  crave? 

Then  you  shall  have  it  —  this  is  Dave, 

Dave  who?  Dave  who?  no,  no!  how  queer! 

And  you  don't  know  him  ?  why,  Cave  Freer ! 

Good  stuff?  well  yes,  I  guess  he's  good, 
Descendant  of  Old  Mohawk  blood, 
And  handy  with  the  rifle  too, 
Square  toed  whate'er  he  strives  to  do. 
Trusty  and  sure,  a  dead  sure  shot, 
Hot  tempered  ?  yes,  sometimes  he's  hot; 
No  patience  with  a  sot  or  knave, 
Yet  tender  as  a  child,  that's  Dave. 

You  should  have  seen  him,  long  ago, 
Course,  Dave  was  younger  then,  you  know, 
And  had  an  eye,  now  you  just  wait, 
He  scooped, the  whole  great  "Badger  State'* 
At  target  work,  "Dan  Moon"  and  all ; 
Square  up  and  up,  Dave  won  the  call, 
Why  Sir !  he'd  drive  a  common  nail, 
Offhand,  five  rods,  and  never  fail. 

Well,  people  knew  him,  far  and  near ; 
Most  every  one  —  knew  Dave  —  Dave  Freer. 
The  smallest  ' '  kid  "  God  ever  gave, 
Would  greet  him  with  a—  "Hello,  Dave!" 


190  THE    MISSIONARY. 

Unless  it  was  a  kid  so  small, 
It  couldn't  peep  the  name,  at  all, 
And  not  a  child  that  knew  him  save 
It  thought  its  little  life  of  Dave. 

He  had  a  heart,  well  understood, 

Some  said,  "too  much  for  his  own  good." 

Still  he  would  scratch,  and  dig,  and  give, 

His  motto  — "Live,  let  others  live." 

"'Twill  all  come  right,  some  day,  some  day," 

He  told  them,  when  they  couldn't  pay. 

He  never  thought  to  scrimp  or  save, 

And  pile  up  wealth  — that  wasn't  Dave. 

Full  eighty  miles  I've  known  him  go, 
Through  drifts,  and  frost,  and  driving  snow, 
And  work  his  way,  from  door  to  door, 
To  feed  and  clothe  the  starving  poor. 
Haul  grain,  from  his  own  scanty  bin, 
And  throw  his  time  and  labor  in. 
"Some  effort,  some  poor  soul  may  save," 
He  thought  of  that  —  yes,  that  was  Dave. 

How  old  ?  how  old?  you'll  call  it  pun, 
Why  bless  your  heart,  he's  seventy-one ! 
Don't  lord  up  so, and  scowl  your  brow, 
He'll  handle  you,  I'll  wager,  now.; 
You  can't  believe  it?  no,  of  course  ; 
He  hails  from  a  long-lived  source, 
One  hundred  — twelve,  they  dig  her  grave, 
The  mother  of  this  wonder  — Dave. 


THE    MISSIONARY.  191 

Well,  in  that  great  sweet  time  to  come, 
When  God  shall  call  his  children  home, 
And,  from  the  anvil,  forge  arid  plow, 
The  forest  home,  the  mountain  brow, 
The  valleys  and  the  waters  wild, 
Shall  wake  each  glad  and  blessed  child, 
If  deeds  of  good  shall  count  to  save, 
There'll  be  no  rank  above  our  Dave, 


THAT  COQUETTISH  KIDER. 
Like  a  snowflake   light-sailing,   from   ashen  cloud 

trailing, 

When  low  winds  are  wailing  across  the  wild  uioor, 
My  love  she  goes  flying,  o'er  dew-spangles  dying, 
That  lightly  are  lying  in  front  of  my  door.. 

All  lonely  I  listen,  where  dew  diamonds  glisten, 
With  splendors  that  christen  her  luminous  eyes, 
Lo !  lightly  appearing,  my  angel  is  nearing  — 
Her  presence  endearing  as  charms  from  the  skies. 

As  sunlight  all  glowing,  with  golden  glints  flowing, 
Its  brilliancy  throwing,  at  break  of  the  dawn, 
She  still  draweth  nearer,  and  still  seemeth  dearer, 
And  sweeter  and  clearer  affection  doth  fawn. 

I  cry  !     Doth  she  hear  me  ?  or  doth  the  dove  fear 

me? 
Or  would  she  not  cheer  me?     She  still  flyeth  on  ; 


192  THE    MISSIONARY. 

And  lo !  sh«  is  darting,  as  quickly  departing, 
And  tear-drops  are  starting !     My  idol  is  gone. 

O,  why  doth  she  flying,  thus  feign  no  descrying? 
She  knows  I  am  dying  to  tell  her  a  tale. 
Oh  !  how  I  resemble  the  poplar  leaf's  tremble; 
I  cannot  dissemble  —  I  sicken  and  pale. 

My  breast  she  is  thrilling,  my  eyes  she  is  filling  — 
With  crystal  distilling  from  depth  of  my  soul. 
All  lonely  I  wander,  all  pronely  I  ponder  — 
Still  doth  she  meander  beyond  my  control. 

All  lonely  left  lying,  with  sorrow  and  sighing, 
Where  humming-birds,  flying,  are  sipping  the  rose, 
In  vain  would  I  borrow  some  surcease  of  sorrow, 
To  brighten  the  morrow  and  conquer  my  woes. 

Oh  !  that  her  coquetting  should  cause  me  such  fret 
ting - 

Such  solemn  regretting  and  torture  and. pain. 
Oh  f  that  it  is  keeping  my  spirit  from  sleeping 
Through  nights  of  lone  weeping  my  eyelids  to  stain. 

And  still  she  will  dash  on,  sweet  flow'ret  of  fashion, 
And  show  no  compassion  in  any  respect — 
Her  steed  proudly  prancing  her  hazel  eyes  dancing, 
With  merriment  glancing,  my  proffers  reject. 

Yet,  changes  of  weather  bring  changes  of  feather, 
Cold  dews  on  the  heather  are  drank  by  the  sun. 
With  none  to  defend  her,  she,  too,  may  grow  tender, 
An<¥  irodly  surrender  her  passion  for  fan. 


THE    MISSIONARY. 


Then  I  may  grow  bolder,  and  sbrug  a  cold  shoulder, 
And  coaxingly  scold  her  for  that  she  hath  said  ; 
Then  kindly  caress  her,  with  cautiousness  bless  her, 
And  try  to  possess  her.      I  think  she  would  wed  ! 


LES  MAJESTE. 

O,  say  !  give  me  a  quarter  there,  some  of  you  chaps 
Any  one,  don't  all  ante  ter  wonct,  yet  pYaps 
You  might  think  I  could  use  a  whole  pot. 
Sot,  sot!  did  I  hear?  did  I  hear  it?  a  sot? 
Well  now  boys,  'taint  right,  no  it  aint. 
Course  I  don't  go  fur  ter  say  I'm  a  saint, 
But  I  aint  any  sot,  none  the  less,  an'  I  guess 
If  I  am  kind  er  poor  in  my  manners  an  dress, 
I  ken  tell  when  a  man  gits  ter  playin  the  smart. 
Aint  yer  got  any  sand  ?  ner  the  sign  of  a  heart? 
See  here  boys,   see  here,  now  yer  might  think    it 

queer, 

But  I've  been  with  just  as  high  up  as  any  one  here, 
Yes,  I've  been  with  the  best,  in  the  big  "upper  ten," 
And  been  counted  a  man,  right  along  with  the  men, 
Had  a  pew  in  the  church,  and  a  seat  in  the  car. 
What  yer  blinken  about?  yer  big  chump,  over  thar, 
Do  yer  doubt  what  I  say  ?  don't  yer  give  me  the  lie, 
Er  I'm  derned  if  I  don't  put  a  tag  ter  yer  eye  ; 
Have  a  drink  ?  have  a  drink  ?  well  yes  —I  don't  mind. 
Well,  I  guess  arter  all,  boys,  yer  mean  to  be  kind, 
Pretty  good,  pretty  good,  that's  the  real  old  "Ken- 
tuck," 


194  THE    MISSIONARY. 

That's  the  stuff  fur  the  nerve,  an'  it's  good  fur  the 

pluck, 

But  I  aint  any  sot,  no  1  aint  boys,  an'  say  — 
Taint  the  right  thing  ter  do,  fur  ter  talk  in  that  way. 
No  harm  done,  no,  course  it's  all  right  boys,  with  me, 
But  some  folks  can't  stand  very  much,  don't  yer  see. 
Kinder  touchy,  yer  know,  at  the  least  little  tart, 
But  I  don't  ever  take  any  sich  ter  the  heart. 
Kinder  thin  skinned,  yer  see,  as  the  boys  used  ter 

say, 

But  I  don't  take  a  joke  fur  ter  mean  in  that  way. 
An'  I  aint  any  sot,  take  a  nip?  take  a  nip? 
Well  I  reckon,  yes,  yes,  just  a  shy  little  sip. 
But  yer  maint  go  too  far  with  the  red  devil,  no, 
That  ar  thing,  in  my  youth  it  wur  mother's  great  foe; 
An'  I  kinder  look  back,  through  the  long  vanished 

years, 

To  me  old  mother's  face  all  a  streamin'  with  tears, 
An'  she  used  fur  ter  say —  "Let  er  be  John,  me  boy ; 
'Taint  at  all  good  for  thee,  taint  the  thing  fur  a  toy  ;" 
An'  I'd  just  put  me  arm  around  the  old  lady's  waist, 
An'  say  —  here,  look  a  here,  it's  a  thing  I  can  taste, 
Ur  can  leave  it  alone,  an'  you  maint  be  afraid 
Of  the  red  bugger  takin'  yer  boy  ter  the  shade  ; 
Nary  a  time,  fur  yer  know— I've  a  will  like  a  stone, 
An'  can  drink  when  I  choose,  or  can  leave  it  alone. 
Well,  yes,  I  don't  care  if  I  do  have  a  taste; 
Let  me  see,  had  me  arm  round  the  old    mother's 

waist 
An'  looked  straight  in  her  eyes,  while  I  lifted  her 

high 


THE    MISSIONARY.  195 

An'  kissed  off  the  tears,  fur  mother  would  cry, 
Tho'  I  told  her  and  proved  to  her,  time  and  again, 
That  I  wa'n't  the  least  mite  like  the  most  of  the  men. 
Poor  old  girl,  poor  old  girl,   well,  they've  laid  her 

away, 

In  the  field  where  I  used  ter  go  makin'  the  hay. 
Mighty  good  woman  she,  old  mamma,  O  so  fine! 
Boys  I  guess  yer  aint  got  any  mother,  like  mine, 
Like  she  used  fur  ter  be,  but  she's  gone  boys,  she's 

gone, 

Yes,  they  laid  her  ter  rest  in  the  old  orchard  lawn. 
But  she  lived  fur  ter  learn  that  her  John  warn't  a 

drone, 

An'  could  drink  if  he  choose,  an'  could  leave  it  alone. 
No  I  aint  any  sot,  mother  dear,  no  I  aint ; 
But  I  think  on  the  past,  an'  I  feel  kinder  faint, 
An'  this  lump  comin'  up,  kinder  sticks  in  my  throat. 
Pass'er  round  boys,  yer  know  just  a  bit  on  the  float. 
That's  the  stuff,  that's  the  stuff,  that's  the  real  old 

Ken  tuck'! 

An'  it's  good  fur  the  nerve,  and  it's  sure  fur  the  luck . 
But  yer  maint  go  too  far  with  the  red  devil,  no, 
Fur  she'll  down  yer  fur  sure,  if  you  give  her  a  show. 
Well  I  aint  on  the  brag,  never  cared  fur  ter  boast, 
But  I'll  just  take  a  draw,  then  I'll  give  yer  a  toast. 
That's  the  stuff,  that's  the  stuff!  that's  as  fine  as 

can  be, 

Purty  good,  but  yer  can't  get  the  better  nor  me  ; 
Then  hurrah  !  fur  the  man  with  a  will  like  a  stone 
Who  can  drink  when  he  wants,  or  can  leave  it  alone. 


196  THE    MISSIONARY. 

MY  AUTUMN  LEAF. 

I  saw  a  fallen  autumn  leaf 

And  raised  it  from  the  ground; 

Across  its  face  a  trace  of  grief 
Was  written  all  profound, 

And  on  its  crimson  heart  relief 
Of  autumn's  awful  wound. 

Its  texture  wore  a  touch  of  green, 
A  faint  and  distant  stain, 

A  fading  glory  urged  between 
The  shades  of  dying  pain, 

Or,  like  a  rainbow's  waning  sheen, 
So  were  the  colors  lain. 

A  carbon  chain  its  border  drew, 

In  fringes  lightly  rolled, 
And  hemmed  along  a  sweeter  hue 

Of  crimson  turned  to  gold; 
Close  where  the  wayward  artist  drew 

His  pencil  manifold. 

So  like  a  dream  that  love  had  fanned 

The  silent  charmer  lay, 
Respondent  to  that  stern  command 

That  names  the  dying  day, 
And  lays  the  cold  and  dewy  hand 

Where  living  fountains  play. 

I  know  some  genteel  folk  would  say- 
Ah,  this  were  dumb  and  dearth, 


THE    MISSIONARY.  '  137 

.Man  only  treads  the  flowery  way. 

The  blessed  of  all  the  earth, 
Who  live  beyond  the  little  day 

That  nature  giveth  birth. 

I  wonder  then,  the  touch  of  woe, 

So  fair  and  fully  drawn, 
I  wonder,  does  the  knowing  know 

The  doubt  that  dares  to  fawn, 
And  lift  along  the  shining  row, 

Of  reason's  starry  dawn. 

Dear  little  leaf,  your  ample  page 

Outspreading  fair  and  lone, 
Tells  more  to  me,  than  knighted  sage 

Has  ever  dared  to  own; 
And  nearer  leads  the  golden  age 

That  waits  before  the  throne. 

Yea !  time,  the  gray  and  dusky  thief, 

Will  steal  the  fairest  given; 
And  here  we  learn,  how  life  is  brief, 

And  sweet  and  swiftly  riven. 
Yet,  I  believe  this  dying  leaf 

Will  live  again  —  in  heaven. 


198  THE    MISSIONARY. 


AUTUMN. 

How  richly  dyed  the  wine  of  morn, 

At  rest  on  autumn's  ruddy  lips. 
When  gently  sways  the  tasseled  corn, 
As  gold  beneath  the  green  is  born, 
While  distant  sounds  the  drinking  horn 
Through  all  the  valley  slips. 

Come  poets,  feast  each  fancy  muse, 
That  loud  their  mellow  lutes  may  sing> 

Through  days  that  bring  contending  hues, 

True  seasons  of  most  holy  dews, 

In  heraldings  of  happy  news 
O  let  them  gaily  ring. 

Sing  welcome  to  th3  wings  of  change, 
Those  crimson  wings  that  autumn  waves, 

For  down  the  fading  heath  we  range 

To  garner  from  the  faint  and  strange. 

To  pluck,  arrange  and  re-arrange 
The  gift  on  summer's  graves. 

O,  autumn  !  sweet  with  moon  and  stars ! 

With  purpled  skies  and  crimsoned  wood, 
With  coral  reef  on  harbor  bars, 
That  sound  the  sea  of  time's  guitars, 
While  harvest  rolls  her  golden  stars 

In  one  grand  sisterhood. 


AUTUMN.-P.  198. 


• 


•    ' 


• 

•   •  •   . 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


PS 


Freer  - 


l?lii   The  missionary 

T»' 


om 


